Sunday, March 6, 2011

Lost in Sunnyvale

Bhaumin told me this hilarious anecdote. I thought I would add some masala to it to and make it an interesting story. So here it is and it is written purely in vein of humor so don’t take any offense, please.


Our story starts with an anonymous white man who, for the purpose of this story, will be referred to as A. It was a rainy Saturday but A was determined to stick to his appointment as he readied himself to meet his friend in Sunnyvale. Yes Sunnyvale. Now for those who don’t know what Sunnyvale is, and yes ‘what’ is more appropriate here than ‘where’, it is an “Indian” reservation located in the heart of Silicon Valley. The tech industry of Silicon Valley has provided the thriving atmosphere and we the desis (people of Indian sub continent) relish in the glory of “preserving” the culture. Upon one’s visit to Sunnyvale one could witness the abundance of desis per square mile this sanctuary provides. So it was not surprising that A was up for a big surprise. Even within this reservation there exists a ghetto, the techie getto if you will, where all the bad-ass indian techies live. It was here A’s friend lived and for the reasons of anonymity I will omit the details about the ghetto being referred to here.

As A entered the community, our ghetto, the aroma of curry filled his nostrils and he knew he was up for some danger. As he walked through this persisting aroma he couldn’t find anyone around. But as he crossed another block and into the heart of the ghetto, the street was full of desis talking/chatting that suddenly turned into whispers. The mean stares (or rather stares of surprise) were being thrown at him and he was ill equipped handle them. He knew he had to get out of there. He crossed the block and made a right and with quickening pace crossed another block. As he finally caught his breath he wasn’t sure anymore if he should continue his quest of finding his friend’s place or not. Just then he spotted a young lady in saari crossing the street and in her non threatening looks he decided to take shelter and ask for his friend’s place. He slowly and cautiously approached her.

“Excuse me” said A.

“Yes?” replied the lady-in-saari with a surprise.

“I am looking for this place” he asked her as he showed her the address. “Do you know where it is?”

For a few seconds she threw a strange glance at him and replied

“No.. but there are no foreigners living here” and she walked off.

Shock waves passed through A as he didn’t know what was that supposed to mean. But surged back the memories of his forefathers from nearly 4 centuries ago when they had landed at Plymouth and how they would have felt.

We don’t know what A did later as little information is available of that account. But it won’t be surprising if we stumble upon a blog “Foreigner in my own country, welcome to Sunnyvale”.

And what would complete the circle with irony is reading of that blog by a Native American.

Just a storm away

Wakes she up with the spreading wings
To flutter miles away where the cuckoos sing
"Must I escape from the fettering wisdom to
The country where the iridescent flowers blossom"

Beheld in her eyes is a world of dreams, of
Puerile meadows swinging under wise oak trees,
Of waltzing monarchs on the waves of wind
And serene lake embracing the pebbled brim

But must she wither the threatening storm,
The dark rain clouds and the distant thunder
And attempt must she to escape this fate
Of looming darkness compelling surrender

For the fragrance of freedom is just a storm away
The fragrance of freedom is just a storm away