'Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking'

                       “The soul selects her own society…” – Emily Dickinson (1862)

                       The ideal of extroversion, the culture of personality prevalent worldwide today, the pressing call to “sell” one’s ‘brand’, and the relentless categorizing of quieter, more reflective persons as less capable are some topics that are explored by Susan Cain, a self-proclaimed introvert, and a Harvard Law graduate.

                        Far from criticizing extroverts themselves, Cain simply makes a case for those who lean towards introvertism. She acknowledges the importance of diversity in the world’s psychological make-up, and the shades between personality types as well, noting the predominance of some temperaments in some cultures (Americans being more extroverted, while the Chinese appear more reticent, generally speaking).

                        One is introduced to several extroverts, introverts, and those who represent the shades in between both personality types – from motivational speakers to HBS students to evangelists – even as Cain examines the ‘why’s’ and ‘how’s’ of personality types from the 360 degree viewpoints of behavioral psychology, social conditioning, history, stereotyping, pop culture, and so on.

                      Written in an exceptionally easy-to-read, conversational style, ‘Quiet:…’ neither pretends to be an academic thesis upholding introvertism as the formula for success, nor is it a legal case defending introverts as victims of the social Tower of Babel. It is simply a passionate opinion – not a perfect book, but a ‘speaking out’ as it were (and we all know how much that means to introverts!).

                       In a consumer-driven world of instant gratification and self-promotion, one is bombarded with sales-talk and often seduced by attractive packaging. Cain questions the need for constant self-promotion and the projection of one’s best image, to the point of being unconcerned about the value or depth in that image. A typical thought that often strikes the solitary seeker who “wanders lonely as a cloud”. Cain notes, not one who is ‘lonesome’ or ‘anti-social’, but one who prefers quiet time to recharge and re-orient oneself.

                       One might argue that such personality types would not fit into some fields such as entrepreneurship or business management, but Cain points out how leadership at the helm can be very lonely indeed, and how many a time across cultures, its torch has been borne by an introvert. It appears introverts make a difference by offering creative, original, out-of-the-box ideas in all subjects ranging from art (Van Gogh) to hi-tech (Steve Wozniak) to politics (Gandhi) to activism (Rosa Parks).

                        This book is most timely in the 21st century because extrovertism has come to be alarmingly associated with all that is ‘normal’, healthy, sane, etc, throughout schools and workplaces. One wonders if the current emphasis on the extroverted ideal is leading to the isolation of the thinkers in society, and the latter’s increasing frustration with the same.

                         Furthermore, the online virtual space that provides quieter folk an outlet for expression has led to a far lesser face-to-face interaction in society today, compounding the problem of imposed or self-imposed isolation in a way, leading to greater chances of misunderstanding between personality types. Cain addresses these issues and suggests ways of empowering quieter people of all ages to ‘perform’ better in real-world competitive situations where the chick that cheeps the loudest gets the worm.

Ankhiyan Udeek Thiyyaan (My Eyes Long for You)

Berthea Snark, Ph.D. (Psychology)  in McCall Smith’s ‘A Conspiracy of Friends’ tells us that the best thing one can ever do is to follow one’s heart.

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan similarly sang about one’s overall growth that results from not being a slave to reason and conventionalism.

                   One of my friends said the other day, “The final destination is the same no matter what path you take. It all evens out. Materially and spiritually.”

                    I’m not sure if it all does even out for everyone materially given that we are all governed (in a way) by different factors that have brought us to wherever we are at present. Not everyone dies middle-class, and leaves the same estate behind. Even if ‘estate’ could encompass life skills/children’s education and accomplishments/children’s estates…I think equalizing everyone might be stretching it a bit. How about comparing a successful Egyptian goatherd with a Nebraskan real estate agent or a Singaporean insurance ‘Hall of Fame’-er? I guess it’s a matter of perspective. At the end of the day, one can’t take one’s possessions over to the afterlife…so I agree in that particular aspect, we are all even for sure.

                    I’m also not sure if we even out spiritually at the end, because we all have our own definitions of what constitutes spirituality.

                   But let’s assume the word spirituality in its entirety and wholeness refers to a heightened consciousness of a life-affirming, positive, higher being – the creator, Brahma, Allah – however we know this being or power by our different perceptions. Then I dare to suppose my friend could be correct. Why? Because one can’t assume or judge another person, him/her being as much God’s creation as one is, never mind his/her faith. 

                    Remember the story of the Buddhist monk who realized that he had been wrong to judge a butcher harshly when he himself was in the wrong as an unfilial son? Remember Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him) who pointed out that a prostitute feeding water to a stray dog would enter heaven, and not a believer who practiced his faith only outwardly, with a cold heart?

                    I suppose my friend could be also considered wrong, depending on how righteous one is about one’s faith…I mean, since each religion seems to consider itself the ‘true’ and absolute message, it would deem all other religions to be simply invalid.

                    The common thread among all our faiths, though, no matter which one is right or wrong (only God knows, after all) is the journey of all souls towards the divine, consciously or unconsciously. The Buddhist monk made a conscious choice upon his enlightenment, while the butcher was living it, unconsciously.

                    The seeking of union with the divine as a means of attaining a higher consciousness both to appreciate and to deal with the physical/material/emotional challenges of this earthly life, is a common yearning. We see it in Christian liturgies and hymns, in Bhakti and Sufi poetry, in qawwalis…In Asia – the Indian Sub-continent specifically – since the 6^th century.

                    Bhakti poetry was originally marked by the preponderance of women poets who sang/chanted their passionate devotion for the divine. Many of these women were of lower castes (Mirabai being one exception), and not always formally educated (some not at all – which makes their talent for poetry and composition all the more surprising…this could spark off a discussion about the poet as 'oracle', Plato and most religions' disapproval of poets as 'dangerous' persons, reason/emotion/regulation/experession, and so on...hmm).

                    These women poet-saints were housewives and mothers (this is 1400 years ago), who exhibited a tendency to disregard cultural ‘rules’ and ‘regulations’ (formulated by upper-caste men). They also disdained the calcification of religion into meaningless rituals in a language inaccessible to the masses. They insisted upon living the ‘householder’ (Grihasta) phase of their lives and shunned celibacy, showing their devotion to the divine through earthly service to their loved ones, with humility and selflessness.

                    Going by French feminist theory, I suppose one could say that these women poets were, in a way, torchbearers for modern day feminists. They questioned religious/social mores, and doggedly sang/wrote their life narratives in their own languages, as per their own rules. In this, they were highly inspirational.

                    During the Mughal rule between 1500-1850, Hindu devotional poetry influenced Muslim poets and musicians to incorporate this poet/saint voice into their writing/song. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the product of 6 centuries of classical professional musicians, distilled the singer’s and the listener’s participation in the performance into one trance through his rhetorical Qawwali lyrics. Here is one popular favorite whose translation I got off the net. I’m not sure if it is accurate as I don’t speak Punjabi. I’ve only copied a portion:

Ankhiyan Udeek Thiyyaan (My Eyes Long for You)

"O my Friend, come to my home,
I’ll welcome You with open arms.

My eyes are longing to see You,
My heart pines for You.

Ever since You have been cross with me,
Even the crows have fallen silent on my threshold.

All the joys have vanished,
The merriment’s gone.

Today I have learnt the meaning of parting.

O my Friend, without You I’m lonely.
What have You where You dwell?

I pace up and down the terrace to look for You.
My soul is without peace and my eyes, worn of patience.

…
Though He is the Creator, He has come to me in human form.

My heart has been conquered and I still pine for love."

                    In my experience, when one plays NFAK’s rendition of this song – even the pop version – it is easy to forget oneself in the beauty of the classical music, the singer’s vehemence, and the message.

                    I hope in 2013, we will grow our inner selves as we progress materially, Ameen. At the risk of sounding stuffy, I dare say the world needs love and ethics, compassion and mercy, the seeking of a higher purpose amidst mindless consumerism and hoarding, as it always has…perhaps now more so.  

Did I Tell You

Did I tell you

How this city of glinting sweeps

Leached diamonds from my eyes, after you had gone?

It slapped the stones aflutter into a million drifts.

It caught me by surprise.

Like an unexpected smile.

I watched the burning embers

Edge into open windows and float under expressways,

Settle onto the hairs of revelers and saints on the sands, and

Trickle into cars sighing at stop lights, tired but insistent.

I neither grasped at the gems, nor rolled them up in my scarf

To pin them to my chest.

I watched them set aglow the colors of this

Forest of restive multitudes

Who now knew a love like yours.

It's Festivus for the Rest'uv Us, with Salisbury Steak & Grilled Aubergines

                   Jerry Stiller (Frank Costanza) recounts: "Many Christmases ago, I went to buy a doll for my son. I reached for the last one they had, but so did another man. As I rained blows upon him, I realized there had to be another way..out of that, a new holiday was born..."

                   When all of your friends have family home for Christmas, or are travelling to celebrate with family, or are just travelling, and no one’s around to meet up and chat…you realize, like Frank Costanza, that there has to be another way. That holidays often end up being cosy, mostly family-only affairs, unless everyone in your circle is free and therefore available for a potluck...or better still, if there is an obliging soul who feels pressed to throw an annual bash.


Mr. Pickwick lived it up at Mr. Wardle's (The Pickwick Papers). We, ahem, enjoyed a much tamer affair

                    Our idea of a 'good time' - hanging up the American’s silver gingerbread man and paper turkey, the Singapore Singaaran’s snowflake and foam reindeer, the holiday wreath stuck with partridges and pears, and taping paper cut-outs to our windows.

   
                  We set the table with our best plates and silverware, lit candles and incense, and laid out dinner – Salisbury steak, roast chicken, grilled aubergines, and pita bread.

                     There was no pole…although there were some ‘airing of grievances’ and feats of strength (if you take into account our sons’ pouts and heroic attempts to finish their dinner).

                     It was a beautiful end to four days of family fun, reading together, building blocks and elaborate train networks together, making ipad home videos, watching holiday movies on ION, cooking comfort foods, shopping together, snuggling in bed together…even having colds together! Understandably, we look forward to the next weekend when some friends will come home and with us, ring in the new.

                      Merry Christmas!...especially to my friend and neighbor KB, who always presents us with a box of homemade assorted cookies during the season. The cookies are phenomenal, as is my friend, a musician and teacher, and mother of 2 affectionate boys - apple-cheeked A, and J the jellybean. God bless her family, Ameen.

Salisbury Steak:

1. Grind together - 2 slices of bread soaked in 1/2 cup milk, 1 small onion, 2 cloves of garlic, 1 egg, 1 tbsp. Worcestershire sauce.

2. Mix this into 2 lbs. of ground beef, together with 2 tsps. salt, and 1 tsp. ground black pepper.

 

3. Shape into palm sized patties, and dust with flour (or cornstarch, if you like).

4. Heat skillet with 1 tsp. oil, and fry the 'steaks' till done (about 4 mins. on each side). If you fear the 'steaks' will lose their moisture, then just cover the skillet and lock in the steam. Keep cooked steaks aside in your serving dish.

The Sauce:

1. In the same skillet, caramelize 1 large sliced onion with 1/2 cup butter. Add 2 tbsps. Worcestershire sauce, 1 tbsp. mustard, 1 tsp. brown sugar, and 2 cups broth (I just made my own instant stock using Maggi veggie cubes), and bring to a boil, stirring constantly to incorporate all the delicious sticky bits in the pan. 

All right, I used another pan - the one in which I stir fried chicken. Same thing. Almost. 

2. Whisk 2 tsps. flour (or 1 tsp. cornstarch, whatever's at hand) into 1/2 cup of this 'sauce', and add to the pan, stirring over a medium flame till the whole thickens.

You're aiming for a rich brown here...

3. Pour over the waiting steaks.

Grilled Aubergines:

1. Slice 2 large aubergines.

2. Toss them with olive oil, salt and basil, and lay out on a baking sheet.

3. Bake @ 350F till done.

After Sandy Hook...

                     Guess who has a $500 million (>6%) stake in the company that produced the Bushmaster rifle used in last week’s tragedy? Ironically, the California State Teacher’s Retirement System, a pension fund for Cal public school teachers.

One:

                     Estragon: “We lost our rights?”                                

                     Vladimir  : “We got rid of them.”

                     (Beckett, Waiting for Godot)

“Guns are only the tools,” they said, in the comments section of major newspapers online. “Guns are not responsible for what people do with them.”

                     Which, I suppose, is why they are sold to all and sundry who can produce an age certificate (>18 years) and the cash.

                     According to the Gallup Poll, 47% of Americans think handguns are the best security for their homes. I once read that it is more dangerous to own a gun, than not. More civilian gun owners end up hurting themselves than they do intruders.

                     Shooting is said to relax and develop one’s single-minded focus. I have nothing against it, if the situation so demands. In India, gentleman farmers often stock guns to guard against dacoits North India. Some use guns to control animal populations, within the state laws. In the U.S., some of our friends hunt to feed their families in Colorado and Wisconsin. So I understand where this statement is coming from, and why. But does this mean everyone has a right to a gun? So now, an 18 year old needs a gun to feel like a man? What does that say about us as parents?

                     As for gun restrictions, psychological tests can always be fudged – so out goes one way of limiting access. How about disarming the larger public altogether?

                     Tougher gun laws after a 1996 massacre brought down homicides in Australia. Australians don’t see home protection as a “justifiable need” to own a gun. In the U.K., 35 people are killed by guns every year. In the U.S., this number is 12,000. The US could go with tougher background checks, permits, high annual license fees, waiting periods. Why not adopt an ethically sound system that prioritizes public safety with LESS guns, not more?

                     In a country where one is supposed to surrender without protest to a police officer in any kind of encounter, why arm civilians to question that authority? Maybe the assumption here is that everyone is of sound mind and judgment, and that crimes of passion do not exist in the U.S.A.

                    The latest we hear of is the need to equip each school with one armed police officer. There could be other avenues for weapons manufacturers to grow their pie...? Just saying...how about a long-term diversification strategy...security systems…safe/locker box manufacturing…self-defense training schools…lesser profits - sure - but also long-term pie growth. You don't want to arm everyone so that your market totals itself through extreme reactions - either through violence or against violence. In any case, another poll showed a change in attitude almost immediately - 52% of Americans (yep, the ones who earlier defended handgun home protection) now want tougher gun laws.

                     How about corporate social responsibility by investing in greater mental health treatment access for those Americans that need it, at a lower cost (given the current lower reimbursements)? Don’t we owe it to the scores of soldiers coming home, who’ve fought using these very weapons?

                    What would happen to the fixed assets of weapons manufacturers upon diversification? How about a government incentive to destroy captured weapons, and to help transition companies into other industries? It’s not as though the world does not need arms protection, but how about answering this need without creating a mass hysteria leading to uncontrollable gun consumption, while helping veterans transition back to civilian life? Guy Kawasaki’s map of mass shootings around the world says it all:

Two:

Here is another stock comment – “I’ve always played violent video games and I’ve NEVER felt the need to shoot anyone down!!”

                    This comment and a slew of similar ones were made after numerous news articles appeared, linking emotional sterility and increased aggression as the effects of long-term exposure to violence/pornography in videos/games, regardless of age and gender (proven by the American Medical Association, the American Psychological Association, and the International Society for Research and Aggression).

                    No, we're not talking about premises defended by selective evidence. Remember Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, and what they had to say about violence and the media? On another note, here's what Susan Sontag says about the objectification in media - "To suffer is one thing; another thing is living with the photographed images of suffering, which does not necessarily strengthen conscience and the ability to be compassionate. It can also corrupt them. Once one has seen such images, one has started down the road of seeing more - and more. Images transfix. Images anesthetize."

                     So much is said about PTSD, the effects from the exposure to violence, the role of domestic dysfunction…Sure, maybe not every gamer would feel the need to shoot anyone down, but perhaps Adam Lanza faced a set of peculiar emotional challenges that sparked off his mental imbalance. Not all of us undergo the same kind of stress, and not all of us react to the same kind of stress in the same way. Adam’s brother Ryan experienced similar trauma upon the break-up of his family – yet he coped better.

“He was a nice kid…he was just very withdrawn and quiet.”

                     I’m not sure if Adam’s parents divorced because of the stress of caring for a mentally imbalanced child, or if Adam buckled due to emotional stress and the subsequent absence of his secondary father figure, his older brother Ryan.

                     I’m not an expert in psychology. Still, from my observations and conclusions of life in general, I can't help thinking that the pressures of the social network in the U.S. that is marked by the pressure to conform certainly contributes towards the isolation of the more timid, insecure, and quiet members of society. Not every brooding individual blossoms into a world-famous artist. So what happens to kids like Adam Lanza who don’t redeem themselves with a talent (remember how Michael J. Fox is suddenly the popular guy when he has a 'cool' identity, in 'Teen Wolf')? 

                     Sometimes, all that is needed is a listening ear, some kindness and empathy. If not for Adam, then at least for his mother, who was clearly worn out by the demands of caring for a mentally ill child as a divorcee, however well she held it together. 

                     The Sandy Hook families will be spending Christmas without their loved ones, and the surviving children might just forever be paranoid about safety, and terrified of loud noises or chaos (I pray they do not succumb to some nervous or mental disorder). We will be failing them all and ourselves if no action is taken to change the gun laws, regardless of the Second Amendment (the right to bear arms).

                     A glimmer of hope that we are moving in the right direction: real estate billionaire Mort Zuckerman pledged $200 million towards mental health research at Columbia University. If more such donations are made, perhaps we can move towards rebuilding a robust mental healthcare system – better than the one that was disbanded in the 1980s.

                     As for those who scoff at the mentally ill – hey, don’t be so sure about yourselves. We are all a little crazy, and we all need a little help.

Istanbul - 3: The Midnight Serenader

                      Our hotel formed the corner of one of the many streets branching off Istiklal Caddesi. Its front door overlooked the main Galatasaray  thoroughfare Rafik Saydam Caddesi, some 300 feet away. You could refresh yourself with a little walk along the river, but if you really wanted stunning views, then you could take the elevator to the little restaurant (under construction) on the top floor and sigh over the bit of the Bosphorus called ‘The Golden Horn’. 

Asia, from Europe

                       The narrow streets running between the four-storey pretty pastel Venetian-style buildings were anything but a hindrance. They were criss-crossed by smaller lanes and I’m sure if I’d stayed there a while longer, I would have figured out the best shortcuts…which no doubt may have been the purpose for such a grid, developed over centuries.

                      These lanes were not more than 10 feet wide and cobbled, so that one’s shoes made that deliciously romantic ‘click’ as one huffed and puffed up to Istiklal. Of course, not the best streets to push a child’s pram along, but just imagine how it might have been a century or two earlier, with only foot traffic and the occasional horse-drawn carriage, with gleaming feathered horses, and the well-dressed visitor.

The 'Cafe de (ahem) Paree'

                       Beyoglu has existed since the Rennaissance…Bey meaning ‘son of’ and Oglu, ‘Lord’ (therefore, ‘son of a Lord’ in Turkish) – a reference to Lodovico Gritti, the son of Andrea Gritti, the Venetian Bailo (ambassador) and later Doge of Venice in 1523. I’m not sure if the building we stayed in was more than a hundred years old, having been named after Guiseppe Donizetti, Instructor General of the Imperial Ottoman Music (from 1808-1839). If this were true, it certainly was very well preserved. Of course, not sound proof at all. All through the week I spent at the hotel, I heard each and every noise from the street one level below, well into the odd hours of the night. It was an authentic Istanbul ‘immersion’ of sorts.



Oops!

                     My room’s large windows could be opened by merely flipping up their sole security – a brass latch. It was very tempting to swing these glass-paned wood-framed panels open at least once a day to amuse myself with all that was going on down there. I once spotted some classmates coming back with kebab rolls wrapped in paper, water bottles in hand. There were always suppliers delivering fresh fruit and vegetables to the grocers, party-goers with their arms over one another, musicians and artists hauling their instruments up the slope, and of course, motorbikes, cars, little vans, pushcarts…

                      The most memorable of all this traffic, and whose voice distinguished itself amidst all the cries and yells from the street below, was an old man. A sad sack, dressed in a dusty black pant suit, ratty black shoes, a white cotton shirt, and believe it or not, a black felt bowler hat. With his thatch of salt and pepper, and his bulbous nose, hand outstretched, he sang a sad tune with pure lung power. From 9pm till 4am. No kidding.

                      
                      There was one particularly raucous night when every group of young men who passed him yelled their heads off with some war cry in response to something he sang. It was complete hysteria. It sounded as though someone were being murdered, or tortured, or bitten by a mad dog, or given our medieval surroundings, put on the rack…And through all the mindless screaming, this old man sang away.

                      He serenaded J, J, M, M, Y, E, and me. I know they all had rooms on the first floor, like me, because our classroom was across the hall and we chatted about it during breakfast…”Which floor are you on?”…”Is your room sound-proof?”…”You know, I couldn’t sleep a wink last night…!”…YAWN. And so we happily dug into our delicious breakfast of cheeses, breads, pastries, fruit, eggs, cold cuts, salads, coffee, tea, juices…until the carbs made us sleepy again by 9:30 a.m., and we downed flasks of spiced Turkish coffee and munched phenomenal Turkish cookies through the day…or, in some cases (mine, I'll admit), succumbed to our cravings and fetched Starbucks lattes and blacks from Istiklal up the hill.

                       Of course, our other classmates on the higher floors had heard him as well. The guy was a powerhouse, belying his skinny frame. He sang with a passion that matched the torch songs of Edith Piaf, the spirituals of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, or the songs one hears very often in the busy streets of India, sung by street performers with fervor and a fever, almost. Songs in praise of God, love, one’s homeland…songs that moved the listener simply by virtue of the artist's depth of feeling.

The Performer



A country for men

                     As Bayram Kurban (Eid-al-Adha) neared, so the old man’s performance lengthened. I had already slept away one morning of classes due to jet lag and the noise at night, so I was very close to throwing open my windows and deliriously yelling, “SHUT UP!!!” But the Turks had been so friendly and polite…besides, there was a clause for ‘acceptable behavior’ in my graduate school course agreement that I couldn’t very well disregard. Most of all though, I caught myself feeling sorry for the old man. I wanted to go down and hand him some cash, but it was 2 a.m. and I didn’t want to invite unwanted attention. So I stood there, my head poking out of the window, the warm air flooding my room, and watched the old guy waving his hands and shooing off hecklers...while, I'm guessing, my classmates tried to drown his baritone with their pillows. We really had no choice but to endure this captivity, like the Wedding Guest collared by the ancient Mariner.

                      He certainly didn’t look mentally stable to me, and the lack of nutrition had rendered him gaunt and feeble, at first glance…except for his voice. To witness his unbroken spirit that poured itself into his full-throated numbers was reassuring, in a way. We often hear, “One can’t live on love and air alone”. But this old man was actively trying to beat the odds…of not having a steady job perhaps, of an untreated mental disease…of being homeless…who knew? He had gone beyond the here and now, and had transcended his own place to share his message with the world.

                      His voice commanded the scene before him for that brief week he stood in that street, wedged in by palazzos that blocked out the sun even on sunny days. His voice cut through the night, through hunger, pain and misery. His voice was an affirmation of survival and hope during Bayram Kurban, under Christmas lights hung between buildings in secular Istanbul. Of seeing beyond the superficial, beyond the smugness that comes of holding on to the material and the immediate. Maybe he was a jinn or the ghost of the Ancient Mariner who had taken human form to remind us that we are one, no matter how different our religions, races, and cultures -

"He prayeth best, who loveth best,

 All things both great and small;

 For the dear God who loveth us,

 He made and loveth all."

A fitting end to our European Regional Business Environment course in Turkey.

                      Needless to say, I spent the next week with my sons and husband in Atakoy, far away from the madding crowd of the party districts of European Istanbul – Galatasaray, Beyoglu, and Taksim.

Goa (May 1997): Looking For Bebinca - 4

                      Tourists zooming along on hired scooters were a common sight. Every single self-respecting tourist spot was not without its ‘Scooter For Hire’ stand and Panaji was simply bursting with these two-wheelers. Panaji, as the state capital, also burst with people. People going to the office, people going to the beach, people going to the market, people going to tourist spots, people going to meet other people, and people hanging around to bump into other people. Old Mai’s in blue, pink, and cream jazzy silk frocks, carrying woven baskets that were filled with groceries; nattily dressed office folk wiping the sweat off their foreheads with their white handkerchiefs, and squashing their files under their arms; innumerable loafers in their trademark dirty pants, smelly clothes, and their sweat stained caps.

                        The funny thing was, the ones who were in the greatest rush were the tourists – Gujaratis, Punjabis, Mumbaiites, Malayalees…They shouted and swore (in their own languages). They blared their horns, and pulled long faces. When they saw a gap in the lane, they tried to squeeze their cars and bikes through. They were on a holiday and it seemed as though they’d left their good manners at home. The Goans, on the other hand, seemed untouched by the blazing sun. They went about their business with good humor and great calm. If they frowned or spoke sharply, it was at an erring child or an utterly sloppy character they’d had to deal with. And even then, they seemed to sing out their frustrations.

                         We trundled past stacks of tea shops, endless restaurants, provision stores, STD (‘Standard Trunk Dialling’)/ISD booths, hair salons, Bata shoe shops, bakeries, pharmacies, sweetshops, and roads full of people till we connected with Panaji’s main road. This medium-sized road hugs the Secretariat, the Mandovi Hotel, a park, a few bus stops, and a great line of shops. What distinguished it most was its picture-perfect look. The buildings were all not more than two storeys high and they stood in a neat line, painted white, prim and proper. On the other side of the road lay a narrow promenade that traced the Mandovi River.

                         We parked near a row of shops and I strolled down alone to the Secretariat. It stood out on the Panaji landscape with its white stucco walls, red tiled roof, square dark windows barred with wrought iron. It belied its small size with an incredibly imposing face and squatted, ushakeable and solemn, in its corner. I could see why Goa might have elicited memories of Lisbon. The distant authority of the ruling country had replicated itself in a far more exaggerated fashion here. The architecture of a colony often overwhelms itself in its intent to remind native and ruler alike of the utopian ruling power that lies across the seas, far far away. It aims to be inspirational, grandiose, grave, commanding.

                         In Goa, Roman Catholicism had given colonial architecture a severe and punitive face. It was the face of massive grey stone, piled row upon row, fortifying prisons and retreats and convents and monasteries. It was thick , impenetrable walls that held within them immeasurably romantic courts, near Moorish in design, green with palms and creepers, scented with jasmine, whose arches and walkways had their silence broken by the calls of the birds, and where the bees themselves were drowsy and spent,

                         “Until they think warm days will never cease,
                          For summer has o’er-brimmed their clammy cells
                          ...with patient look
                          Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.”

                         Time stood still, broken only by our footfalls on the wooden boards and tiled courts. It seemed like an uncertain paradise. For still the walls cried down upon us – “Repent and you shall be forgiven!”