Judy's Area

Thanks to David for giving me a page on his web site so that I can share a few photos and words with friends and family.

May 2012: Travels to Waterloo, ON and Bangalore & Pune, India

In May, 2012 Sybase (now SAP) sent me to Waterloo, Ontario in Canada, and to Bangalore and Pune, India to indoctrinate...er...train all of the writers in the intricacies and value prop of DITA, our content management system, and our automated build processes. The three links below will take you to photo galleries of pictures I took on these trips. The links to the Bangalore and Pune galleries include pictures I took during my 2 days of free time, as well as links to my rambling travelogue. The link to "Sybase pictures" contains pictures that will primarily be of interest to Sybase people, mostly of the facilities and people in those far-flung locations.

Judy's Blogalore

In which Judy flies from Boston to Frankfurt, rescues her forgotten jacket from the stall in the ladies room just as the determined maintenance staff arrives to shoo her out, believes she has also left her watch in the airport, actually does leave her scarf on the plane that has delivered her safely from Frankfurt to Bangalore, which she realizes just after she has passed the security guard who says she cannot return to get it, but tells her she can ask for “items” in the baggage area past immigration, so she picks up her bag from the carousel (it is nearly the last one off the plane), and finally reaches the “items” attendant who calls and learns that they have found her scarf at seat 37F, but she must wait (fifteen minutes it turns out) for them to bring it, and she is most grateful when it arrives, but feels badly for the driver from the hotel who must wait to pick her up long after all the other drivers have whisked their passengers back through the late night streets. (Later she learns that the hotel drivers—who are all there for the Lufthansa 12:30AM “Bangalore Express” from Frankfurt—are required to wait until 4AM if their passenger does not arrive, which occasionally happens because sometimes people get the date wrong. Later she also learns that it is fortunate that the guard says not to bother turning in her customs statement as the agent has already left, because she has stated that of course she is not bringing any live plant materials into India and has not yet discovered the candy striped carnation that her husband has hidden in her suitcase.)

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(row of B’s for Bangalore Blog, but so many together are vaguely reminiscent of the lovely Kannada script here, at least to yours truly who cannot read it)

Touring Bangalore (or Bengaluru)

Saturday is my second unscheduled day, the first having been taken up with sleeping till 9 (having finally fallen into bed at 3AM), catching the tail end of the breakfast buffet (even though the omelette chef has closed down, there is still a huge variety of options, several juices and fruits, Indian and western style entrees and breads and sweets…though the Indian foods are generally better), trying unsuccessfully to access the Internet, and then showing up at the office anyway to meet the team, pick up e-mail, and sort out logistics including getting a working laptop adapter from IT, because the “universal” adapter I’ve brought works at the hotel, but is not grounded for this 240-volt outlet and can only be plugged in by sticking a pencil into the third hole, a procedure that seems dubious to both me and the IT guy, who eventually produces a loaner cord.

So back to Saturday. A long day, begun inauspiciously, but in the end a very good one. By now, I’ve already learned from my colleagues that Bangalore—now called Bengaluru—is in the state of Karnataka where the local language is Kannada (yes, that’s right, Waterloovians, though that first “a” is pronounced less flat than yours). Also, only one of the four Sybase Bangalore writers actually grew up here and speaks the language, so even when I’m not around they communicate with each other in English.

Today was my day of temples, gardens, flowers, and silks. The hotel set me up with Mr. R. P. Singh, one of Fortune Select Trinity hotel’s regular fleet of drivers. Everyone here works such long hours—the driver who schlepped me all over the city for 9 hours through the ridiculous Bangalore traffic, must stick around for the airport pickup shift, typically the 12:30AM Lufthansa arrival (this is, after all, a hotel directly across from SAP (pronounced “sap” here, like the stuff that runs in trees). And the same waiter who pours my breakfast tea is still here serving me fabulous homemade khulfi at nearly 11PM.

Mr. Singh turned out to be an excellent guide. I had a few places in mind, but Mr. Singh asked about my interests and gave me a custom tour based on my response, which is that I’m more interested in cultural sites than shopping, though a brief trip to the old market area and picking up a few souvenirs is fine. So, we arrive at the Shiva Temple with the extremely large statue of Shiva in meditative lotus pose, the first of my three temple stops. I have walked barefoot in many places today! Visiting this Shiva Temple involves passing through the inevitable souvenir shop, leaving your sandals at the shoe-check, and proceeding barefoot up the steps past a very tall Ganesh, the elephant god, where the stair rails are strewn with orange threads that are some sort of personal blessing, I think, though whether it is a blessing for you or for Ganesh or for Shiva I’m not sure (or perhaps for the owner who has collected from me a shoe fee, an entrance fee, a camera fee, and various requests for donations to support the shrine and poor, sick children). After greeting Ganesh, you continue through a series of dark, cavern-like corridors, up and down slippery stone stairs in your bare feet, passing various linga(go ahead, Google it or check Wikipedia). I am reminded of certain amusement park fun houses. But then you come out in this pleasant courtyard facing the enormous Shiva, walk behind the statue, and are showered with cold water spouting from Lord Shiva’s head. The result is a wet back, but it dries quickly in the hot sun. (Average high temps while I’m in Bangalore are 87° F, 32° C.)

Our next stop was a government sponsored artist and crafts place. The guy there was a very good salesman—I bought more than I’d planned, though less than he hoped (he tried really hard to talk me into a rug and a sandalwood carving, but I resisted, having already spent more than I’d planned). But the squares of cloth—somewhere between appliqué and quilt—are hand sewn by poor village women from scraps of wedding dresses. Each is unique and quite lovely, so I bought four, and then some silk scarves, as Bangalore is apparently known for its silk.

Then on to Lalbagh Gardens, a very large botanical garden (in an hour’s walk, I missed much of it). Not so many flowers this time of year—when the monsoons come, much more will be in bloom—but there were some flowering trees and a huge lily pond, and very ancient and wide trees with vast spreading roots. It was a lovely respite from the noise and bustle of this busy city, and wonderfully full of families, young lovers, even a few other tourists, though really as I think about it, I saw hardly any non-Indians everywhere we went. The Muslim women were easily identified by their long black dresses and covered heads (though I have seen them in more colorful garb elsewhere), but only a few had their faces covered, and there were young couples holding hands in public. Also holding hands: young men or young women; this is culturally acceptable here, and does not imply what it might at home. Meanwhile, as I write this I am finishing off my plate of amazing homemade khulfi and fresh fruit. The khulfi seems like a cross between ice cream and halva, a frozen dessert so thick that I can cut it with a knife and eat it with a fork!

Along the way I learned other interesting factoids, like the rapidly growing divorce rate—I understood Mr. Singh to say there are 15,000 per year just in Bangalore (out of a population of 8.5 million) but figures I found on the Internet show it’s more like 3,000). It appears that when women have a stable income they’re much more independent—here as at home. The figure reflects Hindus, Muslims, and Christians alike. There is both civil and religious divorce.

Other interesting tidbits learned from Mr. Singh: not surprisingly, as the vast tech expansion and general growth of the city has occurred (38% in the decade 1991 – 2001), Bengaluru has become a much more expensive place to live. Not so bad for upper middle/middle class folks like my colleagues, but very challenging for lower middle class folks like cab drivers and waiters.

I asked to what age the government provides free education. He answered that you don’t want to send your child to a government school because the quality is very poor. Among other things, he said that the teachers only teach in the local language, so students don’t learn much English—and he says that English is really the key to getting a good job. He expects—hopes—that someday his 3-year-old son will correct his English (which was generally quite good, only occasionally could he not come up with the right word, and I could nearly always understand him). Meanwhile, now his son is asleep when he gets home after the late airport run, but still he must tiptoe past because otherwise his son awakens and wants to see him—and asks what treat he’s brought home. Consumerism and kids pressuring parents for stuff their friends’ parents give them is alive and well in Bengaluru.

I noticed that the municipal busses going by appeared to be segregated—women in front, men in back. I asked if this was a religious rule, or if it was just a way to ensure that women get seats. He said there’s a state law that the first 8 rows are reserved for women; men can only sit in rows further back. Women also may sit further back, but if a man sits in those first 8 rows and an officer sees him, they’ll stop and give him a ticket and fine.

Speaking of officials, while passing near the state government house we heard a lot of sirens, and a policeman stopped us and all the traffic behind us because the chief minister of the state of Karnataka was going by in his car—along with his entire entourage of several other cars full of men, and a van full of guys at the end of the train whom I imagined to be the press corps, though I really have no idea. As it turns out, this was a stroke of luck, because after the chief minister passed by, the road ahead was clear of the notorious crawling Bangalore traffic and we just zipped through the next stretch of road at a fraction of the normal pace.

Mr. Singh takes me to the central wholesale market area. Besides the stands (mainly, piles on the ground) of fresh fruits and vegetables and herbs, the highlight is the amazing fresh flower market. Farmers bring large loads of their produce and flowers and dump them here. Beneath the streets of Bengaluru, in the old section of the city, enormous piles of flowers—white chrysanthemums, orange marigolds, pink and green lotus blossoms, strands of flowers I do not recognize, and piles and piles of red roses, are all for sale. Small-scale street vendors come here, buy a few bags, and sell to their own customers at a very significant markup (if I recall correctly, about 18 to 1). The scent is wonderful.

Mr. Singh also takes me to two other temples. The Bull Temple is dedicated to Nandi bull, whose enormous black stone statue dominates this low-key shrine.

From http://www.bangaloreindia.org.uk/religious-places/bull-temple.html

The legend goes that the Bull Temple was built to appease a bull that used to consume and destroy all the groundnuts and peanuts cultivated in this area. It is also said that after the temple was built, the bull stopped damaging the crop. As a celebration of this incident, the farmers of Basavanagudi organized a Groundnut Fair (Kadalekai Parase), near the temple. This fair continues till date and is attended by the people of Bangalore in large numbers.

There was also a part of the story, if I understood correctly, that in the end of days the world will collapse into the stone bull. Then the bull will come back to life, and all of the earthly creatures will reemerge and come to life again. Although the statue was quite large, the scale of this temple was quite approachable. There was also a custom of breaking open and offering a coconut, though I did not see this. A temple attendant offers me jasmine blossoms as a gift…though of course I am also expected to make a donation.

By comparison, the ISKCON Hare Krishna temple is overwhelming. Its white tower is beautifully lit at night. There are long lines to enter, but the wait is not too bad. In the public areas, visitors far outnumber the saffron-robed Krishna devotees, though there is a private area as well; I see a robed child joking with a young man, and I presume they are both among the novitiates. It is clear that many people find this place, with its golden statues and altar, and exhortations over the loudspeaker to repeat the Hare Krishna mantra, inspirational. To me it feels very commercial—the line winds by many a spot to purchase souvenirs, books, CDs, and foods (vegetarian of course)—though there are also signs describing the temple’s project of providing a daily meal to the many poor students who attend the Hare Krishna school.

My tour includes a stop at “the best dosa maker in all of Bangalore.” I have little to compare it to, but my masala dosa is quite delicious, and it’s fun to watch the guy pour out the batter onto the hot griddle, and drizzle melted ghee (clarified butter) over the finished pancake.

On the way back to the hotel we pass the large public library, which houses among other things historical manuscripts, and is open to the public. We’ve also passed various military compounds, behind whose walls are many beautiful trees, including the vanishing sandalwood, whose special property is that their wood, when dry, retains its scent for many years. I learn that Bangalore was once called the Garden City, but that the price of its astronomical growth has been the loss of many trees—a thousand cut down for the new flyway being constructed next to the crowded roadway on which we slowly make our way.

I am told that the traffic-filled highway that divides my hotel from the sprawling SAP campus was surrounded by nothing just ten years earlier. Now, the gleaming offices, hotels, and the new Phoenix Mall (with all the comforts and many of the stores of the Burlington Mall at home), tower over the busy road that my colleagues urge me not to cross without help. There is an unexpected symmetry between the towers of the new Bangalore, and the towering statues of Shiva and Ganesh that guard the old city. I wonder whose aid I should enlist to safely cross.

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Ordering Lunch in Pune (or Poona)

You really stand out like a sore thumb as an American here. Especially when you can’t understand what the other persons is saying—even in English—and they only half understand you. So you think you’re ordering “chaat” (an assortment of condiments served with a crunchy shell, recommended by your colleagues as a Pune specialty), and instead you get a plastic cup of chaach, which is buttermilk laced with flakes of green herbs. You drink the chaach anyway and it is refreshing, though perhaps you would have liked juice better. You are halfway through your chaach when the “medium spice” tandoori chicken arrives cloaked in a rich red sauce, and accompanied by a plate of lime and onion slices, and a basket of wonderful freshly baked naan. You quickly find your mouth exploding and your nose running like crazy. The 5 waiters and Chinese proprietor hovering nearby take pity on you as you attempt to extract bite-sized pieces of the chicken with the spoon they gave you and watch you splash bright red tandoori sauce on your shirt. They bring you a fork, but after a few bites you give in and pick up the saucy chicken with your fingers. It is actually less messy.

Eventually you try the onion, and wonder what your Lithuanian Jewish grandfather—who liked raw onion in its place, and chrein (horseradish sauce), but never ate anything else spicy—would do with this meal. Probably he’d like the buttermilk and naan.

You chose this place, Punjabi Rasoi, because they had indoor seating (with fans, no a/c, in the 38°C heat) and because they had lots of customers, unlike some other spots in this large, outdoor food court. Later you realize it’s probably just the hour, as you have arrived mid-afternoon on a Sunday after your Bangalore-Pune flight. Turns out that in the evenings the whole “Destination City” is hopping. Destination City is in Magarpatta, a private, gated, city-within-a-city that holds condos, homes, schools, Cybercity office towers like the one where Sybase Pune resides, and this lively outdoor food-and-shopping court.

Savoring the last of the delicious naan, you recall the report you saw on TV this morning, of farmers dumping excess wheat in cremation grounds, because there was a bumper crop this year, and no place to store it. And you remember that just yesterday you visited the Hare Krishna ISKCON temple where they offer school to impoverished kids and include a free daily meal.

The waiter tells you there’s a place to wash hands just outside. He brings a bowl of the ubiquitous little white post-prandial candies, for which you are grateful. You leave a 30 INR tip as there was no service charge, and hope you have done right.

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On Relationships (25 May, en route home)

Some final thoughts after a long journey through 3 separate check-ins, with all bags in tow each time, through at least 5 security checks (yes, that's more one per flight), spilling coffee on myself in Newark, and waiting in seemingly interminable lines at each stage.

Cliché though it may be, I have found that most people the world over are generally kind and helpful. Even if their rules feel overly complicated, or their way of working is not yours, they want to make your path easier. Whether it's your colleagues who insist on helping you cross the busy Bangalore highway, or buy you an Indian cell phone because your U.S. phone doesn't work here, or the ladies who are constantly cleaning the Indian restrooms who see you shake the water off your wet hands and offer you several green paper towels, or the multiple colleagues who bring you a bagful of fresh, juicy mangos the afternoon before you leave for home because it's the season for Alphonsos, or the fellow hotel guest who rushes back to make sure you're okay after he hears your thump as you trip over the elevator doorstep in your hurry to beat out the race against the rapidly closing elevator doors (apparently the "close doors slowly" safety feature of U.S. elevators has not made it to India).

People are pleased to share their culture and their city and country with you, and they are very glad that you've come to them. As your cab driver begins to trust you, he shares more information: the picture of his three-year-old son and the high cost of educating him. Another driver tells you he plans to leave his job soon and return to his village for the months of the monsoon season to help his father pick the cotton on their farm (Pune is famous for its cottons), and that the brown, dry fields and trees will turn green and beautiful when it rains. His eyes light up as if the refreshing rain has fallen upon him just from the thought of returning to his village.

On my return flight, I learn that the 84-year-old Indian woman next to me is a U.S. citizen living in New York City since the 1960s. It turns out that her husband worked for All India Radio, his job originally to broadcast from India to the many Gujaratis living in Africa--Ghandi-Ji among them--before independence. And her husband got to broadcast the news of independence in 1947! They married in 1945, when she was just 17. Then in the mid-fifties he came to the U.S., leaving her and their son behind in India because at the time, there were only 100 green cards for Indians each year. When Lyndon Johnson became President, the number increased and she joined him. In her understated sari and gray hair in a bun she looks so traditional, and yet she has this wonderful story to share.

Among the subjects I have come here to teach my colleagues is the importance of dependencies, and how to define the relationships that form the basis for links. On leaving the country, it occurs to me that perhaps the key to progress is not just the tools and technologies and process improvements that make us more efficient, but gaining a sense of each other. In the end, it's about relationships.

Judy

P.S. Speaking of relationships, here's a shoutout to my husband for making this web page possible. And for the carnations too.

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