Vacation at Camp Premier, New Orleans

I took a much-needed week long break from life - to reflect and to live again. I chose to volunteer in the Katrina debris removal program under the ageis of Habitat for Humanity.

I arrived at Camp Premier, the Federal Emergency Management Agency's(FEMA) "advanced" base camp in St.Bernad Parish in Louisiana. Since the camp was federal property, security was tight with a lot of restrictions. On the bright side, the food was good, the potties were ok and showers excellent.

The camp had around 600 people when I got there with volunteers arrving and leaving during weekends. It included volunteers from AmeriCorp, Samaritan's Purse and of course Habitat for Humanity. Most were college students, arriving in big groups. I was one of the rare "independent" volunteer, not connected to any big group.

I was put in Team Gold 1. We were a team of 9, headed by a 19 year kid from Michigan. Work began at 7:30 am in the morning and continued till 2:30 in the afternoon. It involved gutting flood-damaged houses. We had to go into houses, remove all sodden furniture, clear out the silt/sludge, knock down dry walls and get the house in shape for rebuilding. We cleaned out 4 houses in varying degrees through the week.

The team was a colorful one. The team captian, Corey, was a work-a-holic and had come down as a part of team from his college. He is a swimming champion. He handled the 90+ degrees heat and humidity in style and made up for the incompetancies of others.There were the cousins from Kentucky(Katie and Jason), two kids from U of Fl(Kim and Choppy), a kid from Maine(Sara), a educational consultant from Philly(Jen) and Clarie(I dont know much about her). Katie had a Master's in pshycology. Jason was a pure country fellow with a sarcastic sense of humor, and Choppy had an interesting history on the origins of his name. Jen, was the most talkative of the lot. She is an active baloonists and she entertained us with her balooning exploits over sunflower fields in southern France. Baloons, cannot be steered and it goes where the wind takes it. Apparently, French farmers are balooning patrons and whenever she landed in a farm, she was treated with some amazing country wine and fluffiest of croissants!

Each of us had a favorite tool and a favorite job. Corey was a attic worm. Choppy wouldn't let go of the crow-bar. I had my shovel. We worked amazingly well. It was surprising to see to a bunch of random people working so efficiently. There was no one to supervise us and yet we worked as if our life depended on it.

The scenary of destruction was one of our biggest motivators. Nine months since Katrina and a just a week away from the 2006 storm season, nothing much has changed. The houses destroyed by floods where, it seemed, preserved for us in its virgin state. The area was hardly repopulated and the Army Corp of Engineers worked in our backyards in a frentic pace to strengthen leeves for the new storm season.

The work hazards were many. The worst was the heat and humidity. For me, food was also one. Being a vegetarian, I survived on 6 liters of water, 4 slices of bread, mashed potatoes and steamed brocolli. Besides the heat, we had to encounter snakes, spiders, bugs, rusted nails,live ammunition (its deep south baby) and refrigrators.

The refrigrators had become legendary. The rotten food emanated such bad stench that some people puked wantedly in their masks, hoping their puke will smell better. The cardinal rule was, if the fridge door opened, run as if you have no tomorrow. The fridges psyched us so much that, when a girl shouted "look, an open fridge" in the bus-journey back to camp, we instinctively scampered for cover.

By the end of the day, we trooped back to the camp weary beyond comprehension. A shower was a life-giver. There was a rush for dinner at 5:30. It was the reward for our toils, and oh yeah, it tasted great. The camp was dead by 8 and the ritual started all-over the next morning.

On the last day, on our way back to camp, before disembarking, our bus-driver spoke with a heavy voice puctuated by southern accent "Y'all dont know me"...he paused..."But God bless you for what y'all are doing". A brief moment of silence ensued and then the whole bus burst into applause. There was no demeaning thanks or words of praise. Just simple heart-felt appreciation for being there and doing it.For me, that was the defining moment of the whole camp.

Caught Somewhere In-Between!

The smooth brown skin, the perfect chests amply assisted by Victoria' Secret, and tight rear-hugging jeans makes me titillate. Indian girls have arrived. Things were not when I just got to the US.

As someone who came to the US five years back, I have a different perspective of India and Indian girls. I still think of them as fully covered, sari-clad and jasmine adorned.And then, there are girls of Indian origin here, who can get low and dirty with cleavages as deep as the Grand Canyon. I am perfectly adapted and ok with both these mental images.

A few years back, I could make out if an Indian girl just got here. The loose T-shirts and baggy jeans where clear indicators. I even remember making at extra trip to the lab to catch a glimpse of the "black thunder" - a jasmine adorned gal, with loose tops and jeans with anklets. She created quite a commotion in the lab , thanks to the anklets. But, as everything else, Indian girls have changed and are making a statement.

Unfortunately for me, I was totally disconnected with the process of change. And the end results are frightening. My mental image and physical reality dont match. And the void is causing confusion. I dont know what to expect from such western looking girls. Will she still be as emotionally sapping, control-freak or will she let me go out to strip club for my friend's bachelor party? How will she react to all-night booze/pot sessions with my buddies? Conversely, if she sheds her clothes in a beach faster than a blink-of-a-eye, what will I make of it? Is it okay for her to tightly hug(not the ass out, chin up hug) any/and every earlier male-acquitance?

These are just a few questions that makes my life a lot more complicated. All the questions and situations are quite uncommon.But the questions are still valid.The more I think of it, the more I am convinced that I am indeed caught somewhere in-between.

Indian Version of Social Security - Kids

Its that time of your life when your mom starts talking about the "M"-word - marriage. No, this aint about weddings, dreams and happy life ever after, but about the change in dynamic between parents and kids after marriage.

Indian middle class is moving towards nuclear families. In India, parents in their old-age are to be taken care of by their children. This is the unwritten law and kids are the social security that parents invest in. But, with more urban, hip, and globe-trotting children (thanks to the economic boom), many parents are literally stranded in the highway of life. They have become excess luggage. And this is a bad thing.

For many from my parents generation, karma meant something. They believed that if they took care of their parents, they would, in turn, be comforted in old age. Old age, is a pretty tricky time. Retirement for most people is a loss of identity. And old age takes a toll physically too. A loss of identity and failing health creates mental insecurity and instability. At such a vulnerable time, if they are abandoned by dollar earning children(who of course send in money), they are not in a position to cope.

Old people, like children, need attention. Insecurity can only be cured by hand-holding. When we plan for green-cards, better careers, earning spouses, wonderful kids, 401Ks and Beemers, we also need to add parents to our list. We as a generation, owe it to them and there isnt a better way to repay them.

Hard-wired for the Worst Case!

There is a general opinion that developers are pessimists. I would say its a fact rather than a opinion. Look around you and you will know. People refer to us lovingly as geeks or nerds. We rarely have a social life, and if we do have one, its mostly with specimens of the same species. There are exceptions, of course. But the exceptions are so few and far apart that Darwinism naturally eliminates them.

Developers are taught to be on the defensive right from school. "Even if the program doesnt work, make sure not to harm the existing system" is the first lesson we learn. Even if it does work by some miracle, we spend uneasy nights hoping to hear a beep on the production pager. Working for years on unstable systems, doesnt let us believe in our creations. I havent met a single developer, who has inherited a code-base and was confident that it will work. Such lack of belief, in others and ourselves, has made us dark, and socially isolated.

I have seen quite a few young men and women wilt away their life in front of computers. The addiction at times have been severe. The lure of a silent dark room with your machine and coffee is legendary.Few have the power to resist the lure. So what if the society calls us geeks? If the society judges us, shame on them. We can, if we need to, stoop to their level, call them shallow, hypocratic, extroverted "animals". But, as a breed, we dont believe in calling others names, for we dont believe in anything, not even ourselves.

Afraid To Hope!

Hope drives mankind. Atleast it applies to the rest of the world, but not to a Chicago sports fan. After five years, billy goats, Bartman balls, missed tackles and shots at imaginary hoops, I am afraid to hope.

The plot usually runs like this (pretty much applicable to Bears, Cubs and Bulls). The start of the season is low-key. Then, suddenly there's a magic mid/late season run, and boom, they are in the play-offs. It doesnt matter if they scratched their way through or sailed through the season.

And at this vulnerable moment, the beast of hope rears it ugly head. It mesmerises all Chicago fans and the "what-if" question is asked. "What if we are the world champions?". The world goes into a tail-spin and the deary weather becomes pleasent. We marvel at the beauty of the dried out vines in October and actually pray for a super cold January Sunday. And it seems like all our wishes are being granted. Finally, we feel God is on our side and are even brave enough to have goat-stew in October. Alas, hope, has become our master.

Hope, is a tricky bastard. Once it gains upper-hand, it comes down hard. The teams lose. Most times badly (we cant even "hope" for the next season). But like flu in spring, we catch hope every new season. After five years, all night drunken analysis, and realisation that hope is bad, a Chicago fan sincerely believes that "The next year is the best year". Frankly, its time to open up a rehab for the hope addicted.