The Pair Trees

The ‘Pair’ Trees

Along a busy road, near where I live in Melbourne, there is a section of green grass and a line of trees, each separated by about 20-30 feet. This gives a break from a series of driveways that open on to the road from houses. This is achieved by having the houses along the section open out to inner roads so that their sides or rear face this line of trees. It makes for a pleasant change as one walks along it.

When I first moved into the area, I took a long, slow, enjoyable walk along the road one evening to get familiar with the neighbourhood. As I walked along, alone, I paused to hear or observe birds chattering in the branches. Some birds came down on the mowed grass between the trees. Gum trees and paperbarks are so common in this area that normally one would not pay much attention to any particular tree. I tend to walk without distractions built into me – no earphones, not listening to the music or radio. I like to look around, be led by the sights and sounds of a new place. On such leisurely walks, I do not tend to rush or walk like I do when I have a purpose in mind to get a job done. When I go shopping or for an appointment and don’t have a moment to spare, I walk fast, straight, almost in blinkers. Then, I fail to see or recognise familiar people, friends in front of me. I fail to note even glaring sights or blaring sounds under my nose. Many times, I have been reproached by friends and felt guilty for not saying hello or waving back when they waved to me as I strode past on my way to get something done, with apparently a distracted but purposeful look in my eye.

This day, I was relaxed, trying to take in everything, to get a feel for the new place which was along a busy road with a lot of traffic. Here, it felt different from a small country town like Alex.  It was the evening time when the people returned from work, when the traffic along the road was packed and heavy as far as the eye could see. The vehicles zipped past me. When there was a break in traffic, I could hear the birds on the nearby trees real loud. In trying to look at the branches above, their tops catching the sunlight from the setting sun on the horizon, I saw an orange-red formation of clouds right above that provided a background to the trees and their branches. It was a pretty picture and I did not have a camera handy. Suddenly, I paused and looked at some birds on the grass, they were a bit far and there were was this tree between us. I thought I would edge closer to get a better look at the bird, while hiding behind the tree, and then peek around it. This way the birds would not fly away at my approach. As I went up to the tree, silently and stealthily, a sudden burst of traffic with a huge truck raced past me sending a shockwave of air and someone honked their horn. This disturbed the birds and they flew away before I could get a good look at them.

I almost cursed the traffic, but realised that they too, were full of people getting home to their loved ones, just like these birds which were already home. The birds had it easy. Their traffic was less congested and frustrating. It must be exhilarating for them to fly and I was again struck with envy at their ability to soar into the sky, see sights from an angle I will never be able to, to settle into the branch or nest, no rent, no mortgage, no upkeep and have meals or snacks at their doorsteps or wherever they please to go and look.

When the birds flew away, I looked the tree I was standing close to. Suddenly, I noticed, there were two trees, not one. There had been other trees that forked from near the ground and appeared to be two trees, but these were actually two different trees that had grown up next to each other and had been allowed to.

I had read somewhere that plants and trees had an ability to generate ‘allelopathic’ chemicals in the ground around them to keep any other large tree from growing too close and competing for the resources from the earth. This is common even between two trees of the same species. What I saw here was something that apparently breaks this rule. They belong to two completely different species.  They don’t look alike at all, but have grown together so close for many, many years, to get this tall and big. It is definitely something of the duration of a human lifetime if not more.

Almost in a flash, I saw the two trees now in a different light. They are like lovers, caught in a pose of dancing together, an embrace in frozen motion. They are beautiful. This pair of trees is in my mind a model couple. They could also be a couple of friends playing together, a parent and child dancing together – dad with his daughter. They could be a young couple or old. They belong together!! Later, when I met a lady I have grown to love, one of the first walks we took together was to have a look at these trees. This pair always inspires thoughts of love in me and teaches a lesson of growing together in love. Have a look at the pictures of the two that I have taken.

May we all find someone in life to form our own pair! May we all find someone to love and to love us!

Photos credit and Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013
All rights reserved 

Today is 11/12/13

Today is 11/12/13
Will not see a date like this of consecutive numbers, for a long time.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013
All rights reserved 

Hair Razing Tales (In Tamil "Myray Pochu"

Ray's face as seen after 9 years

Photo Courtesy Jo McCullogh

Hair Razing Tales

(In Tamil -“Myray Pochu” )

     There is something about hair – as long as one has it, one can be picky and fussy about its colour, texture, shape and want the very best of it. Though I never bothered to pamper my hair throughout my younger years, I was a bit taken aback when I saw the first swirl of grey coming across the top of my forelocks in my late thirties. Soon, within 2-3 years, the black hairs were in the minority. My son who is the older of my children still has memories of me with dark hair in the majority. My daughter who is about 4 years younger can barely remember me without mostly silver hair and looks at older pictures with a bit of surprise. But when one starts to lose the density of hair from the crown unrelentingly and irreversibly one develops a change of attitude. Now I’d say, “Hey God, give me natural hair – any colour – even fluorescent green, orange or purple is fine if it still stays on top of the head.” However, I refuse to dye.

     Sadly, I accept the inevitable – I look at my old pictures chronologically and I could see that after each significant milestone - bachelor’s degree, first job, marriage, master’s degree, second job, first child, second child - there was a marked receding of the hairline, but that was still gradual and not too dramatic until I hit forty. Then the colour, density and the boundary lines changed dramatically at high speed. It also then appears that the hair not only disappears from the northern hemisphere of the head, it also tends to migrate to the southern hemisphere of the head to unwanted locations like the ears, ear lobes, nose and generally becomes thicker in density around the face. It in fact seems to grow closer towards the eyes on the cheeks. Now, I just don’t worry too much, let it grow and mow it down once in a while when I find the time in warmer months.

     I noticed around town though, there is something about hair in the culture. A lot of men in the country let their hair down literally, let it go, let it grow and are not affected socially by this as their city counterparts apparently are.  They are just known and accepted for how they are and their hairstyle or hair-state becomes a landmark or signature to identify them in conversation, if you forget their names.

     Come November, something interesting happens here in Australia and it has even more interesting sidelights in a country town like Alexandra. November is sometimes called “Mo-vember” and it is the month when many will grow a fancy ‘Mo’ (Australian slang for a ‘Moustache’) and shave it off around the end of the month to have fun, raise awareness and money for men’s health, in particular prostate cancer. The first patron of this Movember event was Merv Hughes, a well-known Australian cricketer who had a huge moustache. I owe thanks to John Rogers, my neighbour and friend for some authentic info on this. As he says and I too have noted, Australians have a tradition thinking up unusual and entertaining ways and competitions to raise money for good causes – severe, almost scalping haircuts and unusual colouring of hair are some of the hairy approaches, originally starting with shaving of the heads and called “Shave for a cure” to support cancer research. Efforts of other varieties sound intriguing - someone apparently even tried to cross an Australian desert in a canoe. I shall investigate the other types of fund-raisers and write about them later.

     At other times, many volunteer to have their other hair mowed publicly for a good cause.  People who volunteer to get their head or beard shaved will ask others to simply pledge and donate some money to a good cause, to have the pleasure/privilege of cutting or watch their hair being cut – usually simply by running an electric clipper. The more famous or popular the volunteer, the more money they are likely to raise since more want to support them in this. It is a festive thing in public, people bring along their kids, in the middle of the town’s main street, people will buy pins, flowers, sausages etc. to raise money for all types of charitable causes while watching the hair fall.

     I find it touching that many men and women will sign up to let go of their lovely locks and lovely looks to raise money or just show support for and solidarity with a friend or colleague who are undergoing chemotherapy and lose their hair. Then there are all kinds of caps, bandanas and things that go to cover the shaved head. It is quite easy to see that people that take pride in being well groomed and looking good can also easily let go of that image to show they really value the person and spirit inside and that looks are only skin deep.

     Around this Easter, there were a heap of such close shaves and haircuts in Alexandra. I sometimes wish I could do this kind of haircut just once a year if only my hair grew at a much slower pace and save a fair bit on regular haircuts which are fairly pricey!

     Anyway, this year we had a much publicised and long awaited hair razing of one individual who had a growth on his face that was ten years in the making - all given up and gone in a flash this year to raise money for Leukemia and the local junior football/netball club. He is a retired policeman who lives nearby and is the president of the local Footy club and a tireless volunteer. I met him two years ago and his face has looked much the same all the time I have known him – it appears to me that after the first few years, the hair growth rate becomes small enough that it does not change much in a couple of years. This man was one for whom his beard was a signature. When I had to pay the club dues the first time, my son’s coach asked me to pay it to Ray. When I told him I did not know Ray, he asked me to give the money to the person I see with the biggest beard within the next half hour or so. And sure enough when I saw a well-built man with the biggest beard, waited for some more time to see if I could find a bigger one, and then walked up to him – I had got the right man. He always has a quiet, dignified and calm air and a kind voice. He has a wicked sense of humour that belies the tone of his voice. There was almost like a countdown in a billboard on the main street announcing Ray’s impending close shave and it was much awaited to see what he really looked like, to those who knew him less than about nine years or so.

     Now that his foliage is gone, I can see the real Ray and so have many locals for the first time. It is only his voice that reminds us that he is the same person; otherwise I would not have recognised him on the street!

     This reminds of a part of the Indian culture where I come from, every year people will flock to a few famous temples in India and ritually ‘sacrifice’ their hair. Many will go on a pilgrimage with their long hair and unshaven face in special attire that makes this obvious. Many of them will have grown their hair specifically for many months, some will have made vows to offer their hair in return for God’s intervention in helping a loved one overcome an illness or exam or obtain a job or promotion or success in business. Little children, often without their own consent will be taken for a clean shave of the head as part of tradition. I think the tradition there too, comes from the spiritual angle of clearly stating by our actions that physical beauty, while admired, can easily be let go and is a sign of having let go of ego.

     Here in the western world, what I see is truly a whisker above because – it is not only religious or pious people who do this, just about anyone does it without any religious connotation. Even more, what moves me is this - most give up their hair for people who are not related to them, for strangers, in a spirit of pure giving with nothing expected in return for themselves. Even the baldies give, by pledging money for others who give up their crowning glory!

     So, I say this (rightly, I should have my head shaved for a cause, put on a hat and then say this) to Ray and all those who gave their hair away, “Hats-off, to y’all!”

Photos credit and Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

What We Have And What We Want

What We Have And What We Want

It was 10-am, the first coffee-break time at the office. Everyone trooped into the office kitchen coffee mugs in hand and lined up at the hot water dispenser. They filled their mugs, took the little paper tubes of coffee or teabags,sugar, milk and the biscuits or cakes on the serving table and found their way to their favourite seats next to their favourite colleagues for a chat.

As usual, people talked about how their previous day or the weekend had been, about pressing personal issues or gossiped for a few minutes, before heading back to their work. It was a great de-stresser in the mornings after the first spell of work that began early at 7 am. It gave a chance for people to let out their personal feelings a bit. It gave employees an idea of how their collegues felt that day and how they might need to be dealt with. Managers made it a point to come to these coffee breaks as per recommended office policy.

At one table where there were four women seated, one woman who looked a bit stressed was asked, "Agnes, How are you, doing?"

Everyone knew what was coming. They had heard her before.

She started in the usual way, " Dont get me started!! My husband trails dirt on to the just cleaned carpet floor with his dirty muddy boots, yesterday after doing the yard work. Supposedly saved me a packet, but it was tiring cleaning up after him.He cant get the shopping done right, nor the clothes, nor clean up. He can do nothing properly without me cleaning up after him. Every time he does something to 'help' me, I have something more to do. Drives me up the wall!!
My children make a mess around the house - spilling food, drinks, dribbling, throwing up
(something atleast once an hour). The little one cries, needs attention, the two year old whinges and whines - I cannot get a moment's peace at home. Lucky, I have my mother to help me when we both go to work. We need the money, but truly, I am thankful to be at the office. I slow down, get my work done and get a break from all the mess, stress and noise at home. Helps keep my sanity. Honestly, sometimes I wish they would all go away somewhere and leave me alone. I want some peace, some quiet, some time for myself, to look around, enjoy the sunshine or rain or smell the roses that grow in my garden. I wish I could afford to travel somewhere exotic or go to a fancy restaurant once a month.

There!! I have let it all out! Tell me how you are doing, Bobby?" she finished, passing on the turn to speak to the woman next to her.

"Oh, I am fine. No husband, no kids. My apartment is small and clean. I have time to read, listen to music, took a walk, met some nice neighbours, chatted, had tea with them, a fine day. I go out to the movies, concerts, library and dances. I can afford the nice things in life and travel around too. I am happy with life," replied Bobby.

Bobby as usual did not say much more. She looked down the table to the next person,"Yes Chloe! How are you doing?"

"Well, my house is a bit like Agnes'. It is a mess too. I can relate to what Agnes's says. My husband Rob has two left hands with all thumbs. He is also a bit cranky to boot! My kids are the same as Agnes'. Between me and Rob, both working, we barely manage to pay for the daycare. I have no time at all for myself, travel or go out to eat. The last time we went out to eat at a restaurant to save some effort on cooking, it was a memorable occasion - the mess the kids made, one pulled the table cloth down on to the floor with all the dishes. I guess things will get better as the kids grow older. But I am quite happy with life. Would not trade any of it for anything else in the world," said Chloe quietly.

All looked at Denise next. She was the oldest of them all, middle-aged. She was one of the quietest usually, tough, fair, but well liked.

"My situation is a lot like Bobby's. I am single, comfortable clean little house, very little needs to be done. All the time in the world for me. I can do anything I want. Everyone around my neighbourhood is nice. But I am not happy with life," she said.

"Why?!! What is bothering you? What do you want?" There was a chorus of questions from around the table.

Denise looked around, her eyes settled on Agnes briefly and moved on, around the table, making eye contact with each of them. Her normally placid expression changed - an expression of incredible sadness came over her face, like a mask was slipped on.

She started quietly,"I wish I had a husband who loved me. I would happily clean up after his mess. I wish I had kids that made messes and noises and drove me up the walls. I would not mind being dog-tired at the end of the day. I would welcome the whinging of two kids and a husband. I would not care to go out and eat or travel anywhere if had a full family. In my old age, I would be happy just looking at them, remembering all I had to go through to get them there."

She paused for a moment. Then she resumed," I, I, envy you all, even Bobby, because she is happy as she is.. I wish..." it was more than she could bear her voice quavered a bit. She stopped, swallowed. A tear, seemed to slip from her eyes and made its way silently down her cheek.

Everyone was silent for a moment before going around the give her a group hug.

They all walked away in deep thought after the break.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

Baby Koala On  Daddy Tree

I took the local metro train just the other day to go to another end of Melbourne from where I live. It was just after dropping my kids off to school, just after peak hour in the morning. It was about 9.30am when I got on the train.

I found a seat near the doors, but two rows away from them. Usually the rows nearest to the doors are special seats - upon request they need to be given up for people with special needs. As we passed a couple of stations, all the seats filled up.

A young couple and a couple of old ladies came over. People moved to give them the seats near the doors. There was a young mother with her baby in her arms and the pram next to her. Several older men and women stood near the doors - they were still proud and able to stand and perhaps others were aware and sensitive, not to offend them by offering up a seat unless asked. In general, I have found that Melbourne people are very kind, polite, thoughtful and sensitive. I am always impressed by their helpful nature.

As we passed more stations more people got in than got out. It was getting crowded, but not jam packed. I noted that most of my fellow travellers, both young and old, these days were 'phubbing (phone-snubbing)' - looking into their smart phones or little tablets while apparently ignoring the people around them.

As my gaze went around from the scenery outside to the people within, I suddenly saw a cute, pretty little face, framed by lovely, long golden hair that went from straight to waves to curls at the very tips below the shoulders, appear in the middle of two adults standing and rise up to adult height. The charming blue eyes were surrounded by slightly red-streaked whites - must have been tired or had been rubbed lately.

The natural red lips held a smile of satisfaction as two little arms appeared around the neck of a man who stood with his shoulders leaning against the metal pole near the door, facing away from me. The person standing next to the man moved slightly and a little leg appeared between them, shod in pretty little shoes, stockings and a longish denim skirt over it. I could only see the side of the man's face from behind, a reddish beard that was soon covered as the little girl snuggled her face next to his, and rested her face near his collar bone. One arm of the little girl covered her face as she buried her face in the comfortable space. I could only see her golden head and one eyebrow, her hands clasped together behind the man's neck, with a large brown leaf still in her hand. She must have picked it up from play recently and it was probably intended for her own private collection at home. I reckoned the little girl would be about 3 years of age, her full circle of arms just barely fit around the man's neck. She took a peeping look around, with one eye roving, visible over the arm that hid her face. I could tell it was her dad, the way she seemed to be on a familiar perch.

The chatter of the passengers, one playing loud music, some talking loudly on the phone, the shake and rattle of the train and the crowds pressing around did not seem to matter. The gentle rocking motion of the train seemed to lull the little girl to sleep. The little girl looked like a Koala bear cub sleeping on Daddy Tree! It is amazing how parents create a little safe, comfort space, like a cocoon around their little ones, in the midst of heat, crowds, noise, movement and hazards.

It suddenly reminded me of my own little ones, when they were younger, just the other day it seems (actually few years ago). My daughter would climb on to me and I remembered the touch. I knew how that dad felt. It was one of the best feelings in the world. I would sometimes have both my kids, one on either side (or one piggy back and the other draped on my chest). We would be returning home from a late footy game or a day out on the town, riding the train back to where we lived in the suburbs. The pram was for all the bags and stuff. I was the preferred vehicle while on a crowded train if we did not find seating, or when we walked home from the station.

As the stations passed and we neared the city centre, more passengers got out than got in. The crowds thinned, and I noted that the man was still standing - like a bent tree, with his shoulder resting on the metal pole with his hips outwards, while he supported the little girl with the sling made of his hands clasped together. He had tried to give the girl as much of a horizontal incline as his body would allow in that position. He could have turned around and anyone would have given their seat. He did not move at all. The little girl continued to sleep, with the big brown leaf still clasped in her hand, behind her father's neck. I remembered that I too preferred to stand and hold my kids more comfortably if they wanted to sleep rather than sitting in a crowded train or bus. As the crowds thinned out, the seats near the door become empty and still the man remained as we passed more stations. Suddenly the little girl woke up, with a yawn she smothered with one hand, careful not to let go of her leaf. She was then set down gently and held on to the man's legs.

I had to get up and get off at the next station. As I passed the man and his girl, I noted that he all along had another little boy, older than the girl, who was standing next to him and had his arms around his waist, and standing on one of the foot of his father, while his sister stood on the other foot.

One look at the man and I could tell why he was a happy father with happy kids! He reminded me of myself, just a few years ago. Those times are gone quickly and gone for ever.

"Enjoy them while you can," I wished it silently to the man as I got off the train!



Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

　

The Nicest Things About: India

The Nicest Things About: India

- Food.A staggering variety of tasty, nutritious range of food for all seasons from all the parts of the country. Something to suit all tastes, preferences - vegetarian or non-vegetarian. Delectable dishes that are visually tantalising, mouth-watering, a gorgeous riot of smells and tastes that tickle not just your tastebuds and make them dance, but your whole body is brought alive and feels thankful to be alive, just to experience the joy of eating as one of joys of living. Not all Indian food is hot, spicy, deep-fried and burns its way down your digestive system as some might believe after eating at an Indian restaurant that features all the 'highlights' dishes of various parts of India. You can have the most subtle or strong tastes of good, wholesome and delicious food in Indian homes or feasts during marriages or special occasions. There is food for different seasons, food for different reasons, food for different illness, for different wellness!

I will not list them, too many to do so. You can spend an entire year, three meals and a snack everyday in India, without repeating any dish.... This is a culture that has developed food such that  it can be a spiritual experience to eat.

- MusicOne of the most ancient cultures to scientifically and thoroughly develop music- from the basic theory to the most advanced forms of it, requiring the highest skills. Music that can move you, your soul and apparently even move inanimate objects. The rich variety of music, the lyrics, and the chants, many inspired by the highest and most noblest of human spirit, can transport you to another dimension - one that can only be experienced, not seen or described. There is music for all moods, all emotions and feelings. Indians do not choose music to suit their moods, they will listen to any music and get into its mood and thoroughly enjoy it. One can listen to soul stirring music from the simplest voice, the simplest instruments to the most sophisticated instruments designed by man. The effect of a beautiful thought, a brilliant phrase, an apt voice in bringing out such a profound sound that will convey a story of a thousand words in just a second, through the slightest inflexion. It is just magic. Even the so-called 'corrupted' westernised pop/rock imitations in India cannot hide or take away the strong influence of classical Indian music. There is music for every feeling, every season, every reason, every occasion, from every corner of the country. It is a lot like the food, it will treat your whole being from the body to the innermost depths of the soul. This is a culture that has developed music as a spiritual experience.

- SpiritualityYou might have noticed that I have used the word 'spirit' a lot until now, even when writing about food or music in India. You cannot write anything about India or about anything from India without referring to a 'spirit'. Growing up as a young, rebellious, atheist young teenager, I used to wonder what was the big deal that grown-ups around me used to talk about India being a spiritual home to the world and that so many seekers from the world over used to come to India to find their own spirit! I used to think it is all bunkum. It slowly dawned on me as I grew up and was living outside India. Yes, India is a special place, mostly because of this - this is one culture where ANYone, from ANYwhere is accepted whole heartedly and can feel at home when following ANY path to spiritual wisdom or experience. Anyone's method or religion gets equal respect and an equal footing in the mind of an Indian who understands his own culture. It is the grand unification theory in practice - there is divinity and it is accepted in all people, in all creatures and in all creation.

This has soaked so much into the culture that one cannot rub it out, despite seeing many hypocrites, many crooks and corruption. In India, in the remotest corner, any brand of religion welcomed on an equal footing by common folk who might not speak your language or know where you come from, but will immediately and sincerely join you in your prayer, next to you. Even if they imperfectly mimic your words, they perfectly mimic your spirit. Every religion is assimilated into the mainstream in India. It has been like this for thousands of years. With already a million deities that they pray to, an additional one is not an issue. India has an idea that divinity or god is really 'godliness' - a living principle or law of nature. It is like gravity, found everywhere in diverse beings and creations. So, anywhere one spots 'divinity' is equally holy or sacred to any other place. So, they acknowledge it by praying or a salute. Anyone exhibiting 'divinity' is divine and worthy of worship. Any situation that brings out the best in human spirit and the noblest thoughts and feelings is divine. One can see this if one is tuned to seeking something most fulfilling in human life. That is why seekers from anywhere in the world can find it in India. The best meaning of the word 'divine' as I can glean from India is this "good and just".

I am often reminded of this by a quote from Hu Shih, former Ambassador of China to USA: "India conquered and dominated China culturally for 20 centuries without ever having to send a single soldier across her border." This is the only way India can rule any place, not by occupation, but by inspiration.



Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013
All rights reserved 

It Takes Many Kinds To Make It Beautiful

It Takes Many Kinds,

To Make it Beautiful

　

It takes many kinds of trees to make a forest beautiful

It takes many kinds of flowers to make a garden beautiful

　

It takes many tastes to make a feast beautiful

It takes many smells to make a bouquet beautiful

　

It takes the sounds of many birds to make nature beautiful

It takes many instruments to make a symphony beautiful

　

It takes many streams to make a river beautiful

It takes many thoughts to make knowledge beautiful

　

It takes many languages and cultures to make our civilization beautiful!


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

The Nicest Things About: The USA

The Nicest Things About - The USA

Friends, Here I begin a series of postings about the ‘nice’ things I like about countries that I often write about. You have probably seen the negatives that I mention. Some even assume that I am rabidly anti-some country. In this series, in each posting, I will choose one country and write the good I have known or experienced first-hand. These are just my personal experiences, thoughts and opinions. I realise others may not have the same experiences, and they are true as well.

- Best attitude to work and learning, great study culture at universities
As they say, when an average American sees someone more successful than themselves, they do not try to pull them down, but learn how they themselves could become better and succeed. The students do their work and study more honestly and compete fairly and accept the judgement of the teacher more respectfully in universities than I have experienced anywhere else. They defer to the best teacher or student easily. Americans can learn with humility from anyone, even from who they consider their enemy.

- Excellent customer service at stores, supermarkets
This is the best I have experienced anywhere. They really know how to sell something and make buying a good experience. Store clerks and assistants are usually well informed, trained and helpful. They will not be rude. Those caught being rude will usually be fired. Being a boss really means something in the US.

- No job security for almost anyone
This contributes to a better attitude in everyone, one of being of service and productive

- Very competitive prices for goods
Most items are cheapest in the US. Some luxury or high quality items cost less in the US than even in the countries they are produced

- Given correct change
When you buy something, you will get back correct change down to the last cent, with a smile

- Highly evolved courteous language for professions and tricky situations
It might have originally evolved from the Wild-West days of the USA when everyone carried a gun (the great leveller) and it was prudent to talk softly and politely so as not to provoke someone or until you were forced to defend yourself.

- Very good roads, signage, signals and layout of roads
The best engineered roads and clear consistent sign boards that I have driven on, among the countries that I have lived in. I hear there are other European countries or places that are as good or better. But, I realised how goodthe US was after I left it and had to drive in other places. One can tell that a lot of the country developed around the automobile. They use the best technology to put signs and signals visible in the lane you are on and not distract you with un-necessary signals from all lanes. They use lenses to focus the signal you need to see from your lane. The placement of signs and signals too, is engineered really beautifully.

- Very skilled drivers on the average
With probably the first country to have cars for the masses and a century or more of driving experience this is not surprising. This is a Car-nation!

- Generally people organise themselves very well
Socially or in any endeavour, Americans tend to organise themselves very well, productively and give people the right authority to do the job. The most qualified in any area gets the preference. Less ego and pride of position or authority displayed. Their preparedness for disasters and emergency help is amazing. They work and address so many regulations, concerns in doing just about any activity.


- Receptionist phone attendance
This is something that is crucial and a pleasure to conduct business or inquiries over the phone in the US, even if you are overseas. The person attending the phone will listen well, ask the right questions, answer your questions, take your concerns down and follow up and get back to you most efficiently and professionally. They will make effort to spell my awfully long and strange last name correctly. This contrasts with nightmarish experiences in trying to conduct such businesses in India. Many office administrators in the US are given as much stock options as the engineers and worth every penny!

- Great civic orderliness - forming lines and queues
People automatically form lines, will ask and give courteous preference to the very old, very young, or ill. No one tries to push in ahead. In any situation, if someone misses out after standing in line and the goods run out, there is a graceful acceptance of fate. Cutting in ahead of the line is not tolerated.

- Great due given to merit at jobs, selection and promotions in most private companies at a lot of levels
More people understand that those that if skilled immigrants do well personally, the whole country benefits, so less jealousy displayed socially

- Encourage people to push the limits of their achievements
Here is a country where being good one day is not enough, everyone seems to push themselves and others to get 'better' all the time. This is good on one level, and not so good on another!

- Great acceptance of new ideas and to give them a chance to become reality
This is a country where new ideas are valued the most. Sometimes it seems even foolish, but they accept and drive change almost as a religion.


- Generous and kind people who will usually help a stranger
Some of the most generous people I have seen when it comes to helping someone or giving gifts. They don’t do things by half-measures


- Take great pride in their community and country
Most people, when they commit to living in a place, want to make it better and the best possible in the world. They take quiet pride in the effort they put in, but do not show off. They have one of the best attitudes I have seen in the world - not to ditch and run away to a 'better, cleaner city' but to fix the place around them and make it as good as anywhere. This builds a culture of pride in the place they live and in their country.

- Take good care of pets
People go to extraordinary lengths to take care of pets or save their lives. They value many pets more than other humans who may be strangers!

- Believe they can be (or are) the best in world in any area of endeavour if they put their mind to it
Americans believe they are or can be the best in any field or knowledge or skills. They will accept the best in the world in large numbers and welcome them to become Americans! They know how to nurture and retain the best minds and skills from most parts of the world, compared to any other country I have lived in or visited. The obsessive desire to be the best makes them too competitive. They hate being second best (which is not practical or may not be good for their psyche in the long run).

- Do not tolerate overt personal injustice quietly
People might be quiet in manner, but will always respond, push back or raise a racket if you mistreat them.

- Great followers of the laws within the country
People make a lot of effort to follow the numerous laws and see the benefit for the whole society in the long term.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

The World Runs on Powwa/Guanxi

Firstly, I am thankful to a recent blog posting on a related matter that set me thinking on this subject. I had not heard of the word Guanxi before. We have so many words that mean this in India, in the different languages of India, including its own versions of Ind-glish! We call it 'Sifaarish', 'approach', 'influence', 'connection', 'pull', 'power' and my favourite one from the north-eastern part of India called "Powwa (pronounced Pow-wah)."

Thinking about it, I realise from times immemorial, Powwa is what makes the world go around. The world runs on it!

While the motive for most human enterprise (including commercial) is a certain amount of self-interest, it is more truly a measure of special favouritism to people who are close to us or those we like or love. Ultimately, when we have a choice in a capitalistic system, we most often choose to assign the benefits of our work to who we want to, whether they are really worthy of it or not, in other people's eyes. We can hire who we want, not who someone else tells us we should. It is one cornerstone of individual freedom in any society.

Historically, and even now, when people start on a potentially successful or promising business, until it gets to the point that they can afford or need to hire the best and brightest, they involve their near and dear or give them positions that they may not be the best qualified for in the long run. They just need to be capable enough to perform the job acceptably, sometimes barely. Of course, it is obvious that it is downright foolish to hire someone who cannot do the job acceptably, no matter what the situation. Such decisions can make or break a company.

Often the 'best' person to do the job, is determined by more than one or two criteria that are not specific to the job at hand. These criteria can be personal loyalty, chemistry and relationships. Sadly, in such instances another candidate with more educational qualifications or better score will miss out. Such is life. The fortunate family or friend who supported the company in the early days performing not just a narrow job description but anything needed and anything they can help with from accounting to cleaning the premises, will receive the benefits of the company's value in the long run.

　

In the next stage of growing a flourishing company, there will be hiring of people more strictly on merit of their job skills. Only after the business has become viable, and can stand on its own in some measure, will they confidently give the job to a better qualified stranger who has to work to a narrower job description and gets paid only as long as they are able to perform. Then the goal is to grow the company to such a scale that the benefits to the family/friend in the long run outweighs a near term sacrifice. Even at this stage of a company Guanxi/Powwa determine strategic decisions and hiring at the top level, while strictly merit is for operational efficiency and hiring for lower levels in the company.

Almost all famous and successful European or American companies I have known about have started and grown on the basis of Guanxi/Powwa for hundreds of years. They even now do so, even in the famous capitalistic countries or anywhere else. Even in advanced countries, there is usually an order of factors that are not specific to the job and that Powwa/Guanxi preference flows to in the following order - family (near/extended), friends, people of same region, faith, nationality, and race. In many instances, race takes preference over nationality.

Unless we live in Utopia - without borders or discrimination the world over, it does not make always make sense to hire people strictly on the basis of their merit which is based solely on the job. The best we can hope for in our imperfect world is to strike a natural balance where everyone applies Powwa/Guanxi sensibly and it achieves some measure of fairness because everyone has equal opportunity to use Powwa/Guanxi.

Remember, great empires - commercial or political are built and based on Powwa/Guanxi! If that is gone, the empires will crumble - maybe not a bad thing, but not likely or realistic. Having been at the painful receiving end of Powwa/Guanxi and seen it practised around me, I cannot believe I am writing this today. I used to be blindly against it and rant and rave when younger. Age does teach us a few things - to look at things from a different angle and in a larger context.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

　

Classic Quotes modernised: "The pen is mightier than the sword"
I asked my children if they understood what was meant by the Classic Quote "The pen is mightier than the sword". I got back blank stares since my kids seem to have not much use for either pen or sword these days.

So, I put it this way:...

What do you think of this, "The keyboard is more powerful than the missile" ?

"AAaah!" they nodded.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

Happiness Is, "Delivering Pizza"

Yesterday evening, I delivered a load of fresh pizza to a local football club. It is the first time I have done this 'job'. I have a friend who has a pizza shop across from my house. He was busy, I had some time and a van with some shelves at the back. So I volunteered to drop off the pizza order he received a short distance from where I live. I realised something as I made the delivery. It made me feel very happy.
I noted the difference between my previous job - as a software test engineer. When I did my work well, I found faults in computer programs. It invariably made someone unhappy, usually the developer/programmer who wrote the computer program. He/she would have to fix the bug and we would go through another round of testing everything to make sure something new was not broken! It was a lot of work. People usually dreaded the sight of me and went glum upon seeing me arrive.
Now, when I delivered pizzas, I noted that people inevitably seem happy to see the arrival of the pizza delivery man. They smiled and welcomed me!
Some jobs can make you and others happy!


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

Don’t Cry, It’s Only a Game!

The roar of the crowd of about sixty thousand fans was like the sound of an ocean in the huge stadium.  Crescendos built and waned. They filled the ears like waves, incoherent background of noise with snatches of voices, cheers and yells that one could still make out the words clearly. A father sat with his barely teenaged son in the upper edge of the huge brightly-lit bowl with a green velvet centre of grass surrounded by successive, elliptical rows from where countless flashes of light went off as cameras took pictures. The open winter sky was dark when seen from the ground. From the air, the whole ground looked like a shimmering, bright emerald jewel adorning the city with thousands of flashing diamonds surrounding it.

Watching a live Australian Rules footy game was an exciting pastime that he shared with his son from his tender years, when the little boy had started to play the game. The game was between his son’s beloved Essendon Bombers and their passionate rivals the Carlton Blues. He had educated himself to appreciate this version of football, very different from the street soccer he had played as a kid growing up in India. The Australian version was fast, exciting, needing great skills and a treat to watch.

While most eyes were on the ground and loud cheering erupted as the players from each side ran onto the field, his eyes were on his son, watching the boy’s face and expressions. He could see the smile of happiness and look of hope in his son’s eyes as he took in the scene of his team running on to the field, trying to pick his favourite players. He was glad to bring a few moments of joy and hope to his son’s world which was falling apart. His family was breaking up and the children mostly silently bore the brunt of the bitterness between him and his children’s mother. All the adults and grown-ups in the world seemed helpless in giving his children what they needed most – a stable, loving family and a happy home. The boy did not speak too much about his feelings or his sadness. He seemed to want to avoid that. He had gone quiet, withdrawn and silent from being exuberant and outgoing. He had noticed that his son had started to take some extra interest and passion in the fortunes of his favourite team. They had been down in the ladder of performance for the past few years after peaking spectacularly just a couple of years before his son started to play and understand the game. They were legendary champions that everyone now looked at with sympathy and commiseration towards their fans. They started to show a little promise recently and had a good beginning to this season, being unbeaten for a while. The son had become excited and wanted to go and watch a few matches live. Previously, when they had lived in Melbourne, it had been easy and they would always watch about half-a-dozen matches live, each year. It had become a bit difficult since they had moved away from Melbourne. The game finished about 10pm. It would always involve a tedious, at least a three hour late night drive back home to Alexandra. The alternative was to stay in Melbourne overnight. Staying at a motel was something that was quite expensive and not affordable.

He had managed to get an invitation from a friend in Melbourne to stay at his place overnight one weekend. The son had started to talk more about his team’s prospects for this year, wildly hopeful of great success and this appeared to have assumed importance in his life now. It almost seemed that to see his team succeed would somehow make up for the son’s own loss of family and security. It was with eagerness and an aching heart that the father went about trying to arrange this, if only to give him a few hours of escape from their private hell. He was glad he finally managed to do so.

As the game progressed that day, it became evident to the father that even though it was going to be a closely fought match, the Blues seemed to be the better team in the way they played. However, he was wise enough not to say it out aloud, because, as they say, hope lives eternal and optimism ignores reality in children and in lovers. He watched as his son stood up and cheered, shouted instruction to his players when they were close to the boundary on his side, high-fived total strangers, in the next row when the Bombers scored a goal and took the lead after being behind for a while. As the fourth and final quarter approached, the Bombers were a few points ahead, but the Blues seemed more motivated to win. The boy’s expression was one of happiness and anxiety, a prayer that his team could hold the lead through the last quarter.

It had been many years now since his son had learned to accept his team’s defeats quietly and gracefully. Even though he often blamed the umpiring or some unfairness of the opposing team, it was quiet and tearless. He would be over-the-moon and beaming when his team won and would rave about the game and specific plays and analyse it in depth. “Did you see that, Dad?” he would ask. The Dad would often nod and pretend that he had or that he understood what the son was talking about. Now the son too knew that his father did not observe everything and was not as much into the game as he was. When he was much younger, the son would bawl or get angry and upset when his team lost. The first couple of games that they had gone to see were ones which the Bombers won and the son, while very young had come to believe that the Bombers would win all the games they went to. The first game that they went to and that the Bombers lost was memorable. The little boy had been inconsolable. One of the first lessons the father had taught his son over many visits was, “Don’t cry and get upset, Son. It is only a game. I want you to learn to handle it well when your team loses, OK?” Over the years, the son had learned to, despite seeing a few grown up men and women acting silly and taking the game too seriously, swearing and venting, often appearing fanatical and scary to little children.

He asked his son to use the toilets during the break before the last quarter and come back. He then went to use the toilets while his son kept his backpack. There would be a rush to catch the trains right after the match and not much time to lose. So, it was better to use the toilets before the end of the game. There were long lines at the toilets. By the time he had got back, the last quarter had begun. He washed his hands and made his way back to the seats.

As he entered the arena near the exits, the crowd was on its feet, people shouted and cheered loudly and excited, stopped where they were and all eyes were on the ground. He could sense that the Blues had made it close to their goal and if they managed to score this one, they would be ahead. He could not see his son among all the people standing. As he edged closer to his row of seats he managed to catch a glimpse of his son’s face, watching the match intently. The sudden cheers of the Bomber’s fans and the groans and booing of the Blue’s fans indicated that the Blues must have missed the opportunity to take the lead. He saw the flash of joy, happiness and cheer on his son’s face from afar as he leapt up in joy, raised his fist in salute and cheered a spectacular save by a Bomber player. It was worth it! Just to see his son enjoy the moment, be lost in it, to be happy. The irony of it struck him. “This is all the happiness I can give him,” he thought.

He went up to his seat and sat next to his son. The Bombers pulled ahead and the Blues kept within striking distance all the while. The game was poised for a close finish.

The son was still excited, smiling and hopeful of a Bombers victory. He asked  the boy if he wanted something to eat. He had brought along some snacks and they had eaten them after the first quarter break. The boy was a nervous wreck and did not want to eat or drink. He knew they would be hungry after the game and then they would have to hurry to catch the local train to get to the friend’s place in time. They would have no time to eat then. So, he pressed on and suggested they eat something. The boy wanted a tub of hot potato chips that they usually had at the game. So, he went to get it. He walked down the steep, staircase of the aisle to the exit near the food stalls. There were TV screens all around the stadium and near the food stalls too. He saw that the Blues had come back strongly and had scored to narrow the lead. He made his way up to the stairs, carrying the little tub of chips and a drink in two hands carefully, avoiding bumping into someone even as he picked his way through the crowd.

As he approached the entrance to the arena, the roar was deafening. It was getting impossible to tell what exactly was happening, but it must have been something important enough and the one possibility was that the Blues were close to scoring and that would put them ahead. The crowd was on its feet. Most were standing up near him and cheering loudly. Many were yelling out player’s names, urging them to pass the ball to one near the goal and suddenly the loudest roar went up. Someone had scored. He was near his row of seats and suddenly through a gap between two standing fans, he caught a glimpse of his son – disappointment written all over, an expression of agony and pain flashed across his tender face for a second. The boy smashed his fist into his palm and sat down, almost in tears. He looked lonely and lost in the middle of this crowd.

The father sat down with his bucket of chips and drink, right at the steps in the aisle for a moment. His face must have showed the pain and a tear made its way down his eyes, even as he averted his gaze downwards. Suddenly, he felt a consoling pat on his back as he heard a voice close to him, from a seat adjoining the aisle, “Don’t cry! Don’t feel bad. It’s only a game!”

He turned to see a little girl in the Bombers colours of red and black, looking concerned at him but smiling to cheer him up. Her grandmother sat next to her. She looked at him with a mature, wise smile of one who had seen a lot in life. She turned to her grandchild and said softly to her, “That’s OK, he’ll be alright, darling!”

He could not help laughing even as set down his food and drink, wiped his eyes dry and composed himself. He picked up the food and made his way to his son. The boy quietly went for the chips, not saying much. He ate quietly as the game wound down and the Blues held on to the lead and sealed their victory. He ranted about the bad decision of the umpires to award a free kick to one Carlton player as the key to the loss. As they started to leave the stadium, he looked at his father’s face. It looked a bit sad and depressed even as he smiled widely and talked cheerfully. Lately, he had seen his father’s expression thus often. Usually, the boy knew he could not say anything or do much to cheer him up. He reckoned this time it must be because of his disappointment over the Bombers’ loss today. He decided to be grown up and mature.

“Aw, that’s the first loss this season and the Bombers are certain to win the next game, Dad,” said the boy trying to sound casual but with a fierce expression, willing it deeply from the heart.

In the loud celebrations of the crowd no one could hear the father’s heart break even as it swelled with pride.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

A Mark On The Road

It was a cold winter’s day in Alaska.  The temperature was about minus 18 degrees. I stood at an intersection of two streets with about half-a-dozen of my mates from my University. A couple of them were Indians, like me, and the rest were Americans and Europeans.  We were returning home to our dormitories from a long walk to the supermarket, carrying our bags of groceries.

There was very little traffic. We saw a couple of cars turn at the intersection just as we were waiting for the signal to change. We heard someone shout at us – a known friendly voice called out to us, “Hey, want a lift?” It was someone known to us. The two cars stopped, one pulled over to side against the kerb and the other stopped in the middle lane.

A couple of my friends hurried across the crossing between the lines without waiting for the light to change, a couple went straight for the vehicles, diagonally across the road from where they were and the rest waited for the light to change and then cross. The doors of the car in the middle lane were flung open and two of my friends jumped in on the traffic side, one came in from the other side as it started to drive off. Someone pulled the door shut as it picked up speed. The car that had pulled over to the kerb opened its doors towards the kerb, with its indicator flashing, waited for the rest to come by and it took in the rest of us who piled in. It had to wait for the last of us to cross after the lights had changed.

As the vehicle in which I was started to move, something struck me. The car that had stopped in the middle-lane was being driven by someone of Indian origin. The people who had crossed the road without waiting for the lights to change and run diagonally were Indians, the ones who walked across the crossing without waiting for the lights to change were Asian and European and the ones that waited until the lights had changed before crossing, were Americans. The driver of the car that pulled to the kerb was of American-European origin.

We all met up on campus in the lounge of our dormitory, after putting away our groceries. It was like a party. Our American friend, Dan, who drove one of the cars approached the group of Indians with the driver of the other car. He observed in a semi-joking manner, “Man, You guys are crazy! You were lucky there was not much traffic or any police around, you would have got into an accident or got a ticket for sure!”

“Hey, relax, Dan! There was no traffic and nothing happened, did it?” responded one of them.

Dan shook his head, moved on and sat down on a couch, next to me. He turned around and smiled, friendly as ever.

I smiled back.

“Dan! I want to share something with you. Just my thoughts on what I observed. It is something interesting that happened today as we got a lift back. All the Americans followed the rules, crossed after the lights changed, walked within the crossing lines, parked properly and indicated their intention. All the Indians and Asians just walked across the road without following the rules or lanes. They just headed in the shortest direction or the quickest way, after noting there was no immediate danger, of course.  The Europeans too mostly followed the rules, but were OK to cut a little corner. I know you are polite and don’t want to sound harsh. But I want to explain something to you. I want you to understand us - us Indians who view this world a bit differently. Would you like to hear what I think?”

Dan smiled and nodded. The atmosphere was that of a party, it was a party of sorts during the winter holidays, with those of us that remained on campus with no families to go to nearby.

“Sure, I’d love to hear it!” Dan encouraged me. I suppose anything to while away the time as we finished our drinks.

“OK, Dan. Tell me what does the yellow the line marked on the road mean to you?” I asked.

“Umm.. I see the yellow line or markings and it tells me that I should not cross it or within what bounds I should stay.”

“Sounds good! But let me tell you Dan, what the yellow line means to me. I am originally from India, a country renowned for the spirituality of its people and the philosophy of its ancients. Our cultural philosophy encourages us to see things for what they truly are, or as close to the truth as we can get. So, what I see first is not all the meaning you say in the yellow line. I instinctively see it for what it really is – a yellow mark on the road, painted by someone. That is it! It is my own conditioning and choice to attach meaning or significance to this mark. It is my own choice to let it tell me what to do or not to do. If you ask me what else I see in the yellow mark, I would say ‘molecules of yellow acrylic paint’. And if you ask more deeply, I would answer, what do we really know about the nature of atoms that make up these molecules? Quantum physics is so deeply mysterious and strange that what we consider the truth is not really true. So, the ultimate truth is that we do not or cannot know the truth. We Indians, who grow up in India seem to be conditioned to be in this philosophical state of mind at road crossings and where lines are drawn or signs posted.”

Dan laughed out loud! He understood self-deprecating humour. It was common among Americans.

“I know, it is probably embarrassing, but in the spirit of seeing things for what they are, we Indians also can say it like it is,” I proceeded.

Dan had been to India as a visitor, stayed awhile observing the educational system. He had some insight about the place and people. I asked him what were the things that struck him as typical about Indians?

“Well, I thought they were very nice, hospitable. Almost all I met were extra kind and nice to me. Everyone wanted to personally do something for me. I also was surprised that many struggled a lot through daily life, but were happy. Many seemed to give up on dreams easily at an early age. If they did poorly on a subject like math, they gave up their dreams easily and faced a more difficult life,” Dan observed, I suppose feeling a bit more comfortable to open up. Maybe my own comments and his drink had something to do with it.

I suppose being unused to having much alcohol, the half can of beer that I had consumed loosened my tongue and inhibitions. In typical Indian fashion, I started out on a long shpiel, punctuated by sips of the beer I was determined to finish. Dan listened, quietly smiling.

“Aha!! A very good observation, Dan!” I started on the long monologue, “Often, while growing up in the home country, my perception of the people around me was the same – that they gave up easily in life, not persisting in following their dreams. If someone ‘failed’ to get a passing grade in science in their middle school, they often easily resigned themselves to a life without a chance of working on science in the future. They did not persist in face of challenges. Or so it seemed. When I went abroad for my ‘higher’ studies, I often saw fellow American students who were not that comfortable with math, but still worked hard and succeeded in being very good engineers. There were 60-80 year olds who started to learn about computers and programming. I was impressed! I thought that Americans were dynamic, active, positive, driven, and came with a never-say-die attitude. But then, I started to notice something surprising as I started to observe little things around me.

No, it was not true that Indians lacked the never-give-up attitude. It was not that Americans were all persistent and driven to achieve what they wanted in face of an obstacle. Most ‘successful’, driven American could drop everything or stop at the mere sight of an ‘obstacle’ or a yellow line or a simple sign.

In India, most of the population is not deterred by a line drawn on the road to keep them from going across where and when they want. So, the authorities first raised the height of the kerb from about six inches to about a foot. It did not stop the determined and athletic common man. They raised the height to about 2 feet in some parts.  That did not stop most people, not even kids and old ladies. Then they made the dividers into little gardens and planted flowers and bushes, hoping to raise the bar higher aesthetically, but that too did not stop the masses crossing anywhere they want. Even the cows on the road managed, and they had a snack of the flowers, or fertilised the garden, not unlike some humans. Now in many parts of Indian cities, you will find a two-foot high divider, with metal fencing with spiked posts all along the way, and you still find people crossing the road through these. They even put barbed wires in certain places. That too does not deter a determined normal average Indian who will exercise their fundamental right to cross wherever they want, rather than walk to an intersection. The planners, knowing this, stopped putting intersections altogether. Now, the only approach that remains to be tried would be to post armed guards every fifty metres on towers built on the road divider, with orders to shoot and kill. I am not sure even that will solve the problem completely.

What I observed was that the same Indian who gave up engineering as a career option at age 13 because of a bad day in one exam, could exhibit the tenacity of purpose that a highly trained US Marine would envy. Even weak looking, doddering old folk cross dangerous obstacle courses every day as a matter of course, putting their lives on the line.

Looking at this, I now believe all of humanity has all the qualities of fight, flight, persistence and quitting easily built-in. It is just that culturally we exhibit these traits under different circumstances. This is what makes the world interesting and each of us nationalities wonderfully different.”

Our drinks were over, I was drowsy and ready to sleep, and had helped put Dan in the same condition with my long speech.

“Interesting, I never thought of it that way. Thanks!” said Dan with a knowing and understanding smile. Over a period we became good friends. In the days that went by, I could even share my candid views about Americans with him without offence. He could too and we had many a good laugh and good times. But that is another story, or two.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

All rights reserved 

Matipo, Catalpa, Photinia, Stenocarpus,

Pittosporum, Santaram, Kashmira…

(The Streets of Australia)

In a corner of an unassuming local government building, somewhere in Melbourne, Australia, there sit a group of men and women with a wonderful, wicked sense of humour. I just love what they have done. In my travels around the world, I have rarely seen such a clever way to make people a little cleverer, a little more well-read and have fun thinking about what one has done, long afterwards, for many years to come.

            If you are wondering what I am talking about, the uncommon and strange sounding words in the title are just a few of the street names around Melbourne. I think this is a common aspect of Australian cities. Someone, or some group of people, have gone to great lengths and exercised great creativity in coming up with street names that are a mouthful to say the least…

            I have lived in big cities of India and the USA but have never seen anything like this. I am fascinated.

            In Seattle, USA, a city comparable to Melbourne in size and population, the entire map of the city can be folded over (it opens out roughly into the size of an old-fashioned newspaper sheet) and put away in the glove compartment of a car. Most streets are numbered and there is a pattern to the numbering. There are occasional, or often, streets with names that are legendary, old and worth retaining. In spite of them, the majority of the streets are numbered, even the highways and freeways. There is typically, a ‘Main Street’ and the numbering and naming the streets start with a pattern, depending on their distance from the main street and orientation (typically North-South or East-West).

            In India, the streets in many cities do not have a particular orientation in the old parts of the city and maps are not commonly used. So, you can travel anywhere without a map – just ask people around for directions, there is always someone around in India (the population density seems to ensure that, and the fact that most Indians seem to know a fair amount of details of who lives where in their neighbourhood).

            Now, in Australia, even with its small population but vast distances (you _need_ to drive a vehicle to get around), you  _need_ a book which is the thickness of a comprehensive edition of the Bible, and of a larger page size, to find your way around the city. It is a book with each page showing the detailed map of a small part of the city. It runs into a few hundreds of pages. The most popular such book is usually Melway (published by a business). There are also other such street directories. It is impossible to compress this information into a smaller size with all the information. It is updated regularly every year since there is always new growth, new streets, old things demolished.

            The creative naming of the streets with the street type also included make for a very demanding and exact writing of addresses. This also helps develop the intelligence, focus and mental discipline in Australians and  those that visit. Unlike in typical loose Indian definition a ‘Road’ is different from ‘Street’ or ‘Avenue’ or  ‘Lane’, or ‘Grove’ or ‘Cresent’. There are ‘Courts’, ‘Close’ and they are abbreviated to ‘Rd’, ’St’, ’Av’, ’Ln’, ’Gr’, ’Cr’, ’Cl’,’Ct’, etc.

            Just a little error in typing can send your mail somewhere else. Of course, there are dozens of ‘Barker Streets’ and the one you are looking for has to have the right suburb name and Post Code. You better not confuse ‘Barker Street’ with ‘Barker Lane’ or ‘Baker Street’. You better not confuse ‘Barker Street’ with ‘Parker Street’, because where there is a ‘Barker Street’, the odds are high there will be a ‘Parker Street’ as well!! You can bet there will be all the common street names from anywhere in the world, right here in Melbourne, each many times over. Pick any name from the phonebook or the encyclopaedia, and chances are there is a street in Melbourne so named.

            But with names like ‘Matipo’ or ‘Stenocarpus’ the odds are good you will not find another one within a few miles. But then, once you have named a street with one of these names, you look forward to something fun for the rest of your life, especially, when you have retired and are in your last days in a nursing home. You can still get a good laugh with the thought of people trying to say the name fully (a good mouthful) or trying to spell it right, or the curious ones getting out the dictionary or Googling to find out what it means. You can be sure some get their tongue tied literally. You can rest assured that you have contributed to making Australia a bit more interesting and Australians a little smarter.

            Some of the street names are so unusual that discovering what they mean is a fun effort and can suddenly reveal something interesting about some aspect of human history in some far-away land.

            Many suburbs or parts of them have a theme – there is Endeavour Hills named after ships that first brought European explorers to these parts of the world. There are streets named after the crew members in these ships. So, you can learn a bit of history as you drive around. There are names of streets with Aboriginal names and words so you can learn a bit of their languages if you wish. There are streets named after the Latin names of trees, far-away places and characters from other countries – e.g. East India and Santaram. There are French and Spanish names too.

             

            Now, with technology like GPS in cars and on mobile phones not everyone carries a thick, heavy book of maps with them, but the older generation, who are used to looking up places and routes to destinations in the maps, across different pages and planning for unforeseen road closures and developing a mental map and plan are becoming a rare and endangered species. The new generation, even with GigaBytes of memories on their phones have perhaps a dozen Bytes in their head. The older generation were truly of Mega- and Giga- Bytes memories in their head, even if they did not know what a Mega or Giga was.

            If you planned to drive across the city you may have to encounter and remember a dozen different street names. In typical Australian fashion, a straight stretch of road will have a different name at different section of it, it will have sometimes two names for the same stretch. Then again, two disjointed and offset lengths of streets on either side of another road will be technically the same road with the same name! It just makes a greater challenge for the people developing programs for the GPS or satellite navigation systems, Aussie style.

            Now, I will feel I have contributed to Australia, if one day they name a street after me and call it ‘Narayanamurthy Avenue’… I will have a sense of satisfaction!! Yes, I know some may get their tongues-twisted and curse me a little bit, or run out of ink, breath or patience in saying or writing the name of my street properly.


Copyright  (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2013

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