For someone in the financial services sector, I can be accused of being rather lazy in regard to personal finances. My savings largely languish in the public provident fund and bank fixed deposits, struggling to keep pace with inflation. Thanks to peer pressure, I invested, with the aid of a housing loan, in an apartment in a multi-storeyed complex in Thane three years ago. That has been ‘nearing completion’ for an year now. But the price for this apartment-in-making has apparently risen significantly over this period, as prices for most things tend to do. It creates the illusion of a tidy profit, albeit on paper, which is a nice feeling to have.
My relationship with the stock market has been more of an occasional dalliance than an enduring romance. A couple of years into my working life, I decided it was time to get into this exciting area. I had no grand ambitions of quadrupling my original investment. Being fundamentally risk averse and having read the appropriate literature on the pitfalls of putting eggs in one basket, I decided that a mutual fund was the way to go. I think it was sometime in April 2000. I put a reasonable chunk of my modest savings into two mutual funds.
I could not have timed it worse. It was as though the stock market had carefully laid out an ambush for me. Almost from the day of my investment, the Sensex went into a spectacular dive, taking my mutual funds with it. I began taking a masochistic pleasure in seeing the erosion of my money in the daily papers. After a bloodbath lasting a year or so, my mutual funds seemed to have hit rock bottom, and lay there without heading in any particular direction, licking their wounds. My experience left me wanting to have nothing to do with this sort of crazy market. I sold pretty near the bottom, and exited.
Lesson1: It does not matter if your eggs are in one basket or many, when the whole damn cart carrying the baskets turns over.
Lesson2: At the moment of investment you don’t know whether you are near a trough or a peak, so unless you have the stomach for a wild ride, its best to spread your investments over time.
Time is a great healer, and sometime in 2005 I decided to re-enter the stock market, with the view that I was now financially better able to withstand shocks. The last episode had taught me the benefit of staggering investments over time rather than doing it in lump sums, and armed with this knowledge, I started investing small investments each month into a few select mutual funds. The concept of rupee cost averaging seemed to work, and this time, when the value of my holdings fell, I did not panic. The Global Financial Crisis happened in 2008, stocks/mutual funds got ravaged, and yet I did not exit. Now, the GFC has passed and the value of the funds is back to where it was and a little better.
Lesson 3: Although it may seem counter-intuitive, when all is crashing around you, it is time not to exit, but to get in deeper.
It was not until 2006-7 that I decided to put money directly into stocks. I chose five companies to own – four were either names that I had known to be good from prior personal experience, or just respectable companies that the man on the street would recognize. The fifth was a rank outsider, an obscure cotton yarn manufacturer in the deep south, which I was informed by a colleague, was sure to at least double in a few months. The first four in the whole made some modest gains over the course of 6 months. The cotton yarn manufacturer dropped value by half, and threatened to go lower, when I decided I had enough and dumped it. I sold all my shares before leaving India, thinking I would have a fair bit on my mind with having to settle down in a new country, and lack the time or inclination to follow the Indian market on a regular basis.
Lesson 4: Don’t buy on tips, especially if you never knew of the company’s existence before.
It is now two and a half years since I owned any shares, and just last week, I decided it was time to renew the sporadic affair. The approach, even now, is not rocket scientific, and simply to shortlist “enduring, solid” companies which have been in business for years, and offer no reason to believe that they will not do well in the foreseeable future. From these, identify those which appear to be going cheap i.e. trading nearer a low than a high, based on their stock price over the last few years. I have placed my chips on the table, fastened the seat belt, and leaned back to enjoy the ride.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Bondi and New Year
Thanks to our visiting friends from Mumbai, the Jalans, we got to dip our toes in the water of Sydney’s iconic Bondi Beach a couple of weeks back. After a two hour long journey using three modes of public transport, the family and our visitors arrived at the famous destination.
There is no denying the atmosphere. There is something about milling crowds exhibiting generally friendly behaviour that adds to the charm of a place. Add to this the clear bluish green water, surf, cafes and shopping in the vicinity, and it is not hard to see why it is the city’s favourite beach destination, for serious surfers and casual picnickers.
The beach itself is a ten minute walk long crescent of sand, flanked by a rocky cliff at one end and a similar shelf on the other. The water was rather cold, as it tends to be in this part of the world, particularly for those looking for nothing more adventurous than a quick toe dip. However that did not seem to deter surfing and swimming enthusiasts. Mr Jalan though, was possibly a tad disappointed, as we did not come across anyone who was not at least slightly clothed.
It was a rather active end to the year, from a sight seeing perspective. In the space of two weeks we covered what we might normally do in 6 months – Gold Coast, Bondi, Jenolan Caves, and New Year’s Eve at Sydney Harbour. Hosting visitors who are committed to ticking off as many places as possible in a compressed timeframe shakes people out of their travel inertia.
For anyone who is planning a visit to Australia/Sydney, do not leave without a visit to the Jenolan Caves which is a 2.5 hour drive from Sydney. An overview of the wonders on offer is available on their website. The place is awesome and highly recommended.
2009 was the year in which I
• Saw the coral in the Great Barrier Reef
• Snorkeled for the first time
• Went on the insane Jet Rescue ride in Seaworld
• Experienced the acoustics of the Cathedral Chamber in Lucas Cave, Jenolan
• Had a palm reader in Jaipur tell me I will go back to India
• Truly got addicted to dark chocolate and acquired a liking for red wine
• Went on Facebook
• Started writing this blog
Have a great 2010.
There is no denying the atmosphere. There is something about milling crowds exhibiting generally friendly behaviour that adds to the charm of a place. Add to this the clear bluish green water, surf, cafes and shopping in the vicinity, and it is not hard to see why it is the city’s favourite beach destination, for serious surfers and casual picnickers.
The beach itself is a ten minute walk long crescent of sand, flanked by a rocky cliff at one end and a similar shelf on the other. The water was rather cold, as it tends to be in this part of the world, particularly for those looking for nothing more adventurous than a quick toe dip. However that did not seem to deter surfing and swimming enthusiasts. Mr Jalan though, was possibly a tad disappointed, as we did not come across anyone who was not at least slightly clothed.
It was a rather active end to the year, from a sight seeing perspective. In the space of two weeks we covered what we might normally do in 6 months – Gold Coast, Bondi, Jenolan Caves, and New Year’s Eve at Sydney Harbour. Hosting visitors who are committed to ticking off as many places as possible in a compressed timeframe shakes people out of their travel inertia.
For anyone who is planning a visit to Australia/Sydney, do not leave without a visit to the Jenolan Caves which is a 2.5 hour drive from Sydney. An overview of the wonders on offer is available on their website. The place is awesome and highly recommended.
2009 was the year in which I
• Saw the coral in the Great Barrier Reef
• Snorkeled for the first time
• Went on the insane Jet Rescue ride in Seaworld
• Experienced the acoustics of the Cathedral Chamber in Lucas Cave, Jenolan
• Had a palm reader in Jaipur tell me I will go back to India
• Truly got addicted to dark chocolate and acquired a liking for red wine
• Went on Facebook
• Started writing this blog
Have a great 2010.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Leaving no trace behind
Social etiquette precludes discussion on certain topics, and high on my list of thought provoking subjects that are seldom discussed is methods of cleaning up after, well, doing potty.
Indians, and I suppose, citizens of other so called less developed countries grow up using water for the clean-up after the big job. The delivery mechanisms vary, from the old fashioned and common “mug, hand and soap” approach, to the more recent hand held jet (my personal favourite) and the nozzle at the back of the seat that shoots a well directed spray into the cleaning area.
The hand held shower wins my vote as it achieves the twin objectives of using water to do the job, and does away with any need to touch the object of the cleaning exercise. Brief aside: the hand held shower evokes memories of a true life incident. One of the families in the Chennai apartment block where we lived a few years ago, referred to the device as “ass washer”. The lady of the house assumed that was the official term for the device. When they were shifting as tenants from one apartment in the building to another, the lady innocently asked the prospective landlord, a typical conservative Tamil Brahmin gentleman in his seventies, if the bathrooms in the house were fitted with ass-washers! I heard this anecdote from the lady’s husband, and would have loved to be there to see how the conversation proceeded after that.
One of the key adjustments for an Indian moving overseas is adaptation to alien cleaning techniques, i.e use of tissue instead of water. For some of us, this is unimaginable and something we can never quite reconcile to. [“Is it possible to have a bath with only a towel and no water? Then how can you possibly do this?!]. The use of water remains the preferred approach among the adult inhabitants of my home, although the toilet roll remains an available option for visitors who prefer “dry cleaning” and kids who are more culturally flexible.
There is nothing more fake than a five star hotel in India with only toilet rolls and no mug in the toilet. It beats me as to how the management of a hotel can be so staggeringly insensitive to local custom. They run the risk of fine crockery kept in the hotel room being employed for unintended purposes.
Indians, and I suppose, citizens of other so called less developed countries grow up using water for the clean-up after the big job. The delivery mechanisms vary, from the old fashioned and common “mug, hand and soap” approach, to the more recent hand held jet (my personal favourite) and the nozzle at the back of the seat that shoots a well directed spray into the cleaning area.
The hand held shower wins my vote as it achieves the twin objectives of using water to do the job, and does away with any need to touch the object of the cleaning exercise. Brief aside: the hand held shower evokes memories of a true life incident. One of the families in the Chennai apartment block where we lived a few years ago, referred to the device as “ass washer”. The lady of the house assumed that was the official term for the device. When they were shifting as tenants from one apartment in the building to another, the lady innocently asked the prospective landlord, a typical conservative Tamil Brahmin gentleman in his seventies, if the bathrooms in the house were fitted with ass-washers! I heard this anecdote from the lady’s husband, and would have loved to be there to see how the conversation proceeded after that.
One of the key adjustments for an Indian moving overseas is adaptation to alien cleaning techniques, i.e use of tissue instead of water. For some of us, this is unimaginable and something we can never quite reconcile to. [“Is it possible to have a bath with only a towel and no water? Then how can you possibly do this?!]. The use of water remains the preferred approach among the adult inhabitants of my home, although the toilet roll remains an available option for visitors who prefer “dry cleaning” and kids who are more culturally flexible.
There is nothing more fake than a five star hotel in India with only toilet rolls and no mug in the toilet. It beats me as to how the management of a hotel can be so staggeringly insensitive to local custom. They run the risk of fine crockery kept in the hotel room being employed for unintended purposes.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Joy of Sport
As one advances in years and indulgence in physical activity becomes increasingly rare, it is refreshing to be reminded of the joy of playing sports. One does not have to be accomplished at any form of sport to feel this way. In my formative years, more talented playmates outshone me in cricket, with the result that I gravitated towards football (aka soccer). There I found some sort of niche for myself as a dependable defender. Never good enough to get into any serious level such as the school/college team, I was still regarded with some of sort of respect among casual footballers, and could make it to the “class team” quite easily.
Over the years, football became my sport of choice, and I always looked forward to a game, for the satisfaction of a thundering kick well directed, the opposition pass intercepted, and the joy of nifty passes to my own teammates. During the college days, the evening game after a dreary run of classes became the highlight of my day. Many years later in Mumbai, as corporate life and family encroached on sporting pursuits, the Sunday morning game with other thirty plus inmates of the Cuffe Parade building became the highlight of my week.
Badminton has been another deeply satisfying sport, though I have played this infrequently and much less than football. My earliest memories of playing this sport go back to Hyderabad. I must have been around ten and my brother Murali a teenager. My father bought us 2 “Silver” rackets from a sports shop in Secunderabad, at something like forty rupees a piece, which seemed a big investment at the time. We strung a rope across two makeshift poles in the compound of my grandparents’ house, and played.
Many years later, while living in Chennai, badminton re-entered my life. The apartment complex where we lived had two indoor courts, and a doubles game in the evening after work became part of the daily routine. The games were keenly contested, and always satisfying. There is no better feeling than having one’s racket flukishly come in the way of an opponent’s powerfully hit smash and watch the shuttle drop innocently on the other side of the court.
Table tennis was another game I grew up with, although it was several years before I got to play on a real table. My first memories of the game are of playing it on the dining table of our apartment in Calcutta, with a row of paperbacks stood on their sides serving as our net. Murali used to beat me easily and I still remember the strange mix of joy and coming of age emotion I felt the first time I beat him, as a young teenager. We had a pair of red dimpled rackets, which were really more like plywood boards with thin rubber sheets pasted on. I had mine for several years, and used it to good effect in school to win some games against more fancied players. They attributed my victory to my “Fatta” racket, which they claimed negated all spin, and should be disallowed.
Unfortunately, sporting activity recedes in importance with the years. It is only now, with two little boys, one of whom is obsessed with it, that it is seeing a bit of a resurgence in my life. I had forgotten how good it feels, and look forward to the day the boys are a little older and we have an even contest.
Over the years, football became my sport of choice, and I always looked forward to a game, for the satisfaction of a thundering kick well directed, the opposition pass intercepted, and the joy of nifty passes to my own teammates. During the college days, the evening game after a dreary run of classes became the highlight of my day. Many years later in Mumbai, as corporate life and family encroached on sporting pursuits, the Sunday morning game with other thirty plus inmates of the Cuffe Parade building became the highlight of my week.
Badminton has been another deeply satisfying sport, though I have played this infrequently and much less than football. My earliest memories of playing this sport go back to Hyderabad. I must have been around ten and my brother Murali a teenager. My father bought us 2 “Silver” rackets from a sports shop in Secunderabad, at something like forty rupees a piece, which seemed a big investment at the time. We strung a rope across two makeshift poles in the compound of my grandparents’ house, and played.
Many years later, while living in Chennai, badminton re-entered my life. The apartment complex where we lived had two indoor courts, and a doubles game in the evening after work became part of the daily routine. The games were keenly contested, and always satisfying. There is no better feeling than having one’s racket flukishly come in the way of an opponent’s powerfully hit smash and watch the shuttle drop innocently on the other side of the court.
Table tennis was another game I grew up with, although it was several years before I got to play on a real table. My first memories of the game are of playing it on the dining table of our apartment in Calcutta, with a row of paperbacks stood on their sides serving as our net. Murali used to beat me easily and I still remember the strange mix of joy and coming of age emotion I felt the first time I beat him, as a young teenager. We had a pair of red dimpled rackets, which were really more like plywood boards with thin rubber sheets pasted on. I had mine for several years, and used it to good effect in school to win some games against more fancied players. They attributed my victory to my “Fatta” racket, which they claimed negated all spin, and should be disallowed.
Unfortunately, sporting activity recedes in importance with the years. It is only now, with two little boys, one of whom is obsessed with it, that it is seeing a bit of a resurgence in my life. I had forgotten how good it feels, and look forward to the day the boys are a little older and we have an even contest.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
What's your trip?
A couple of years ago, I read that an American, Po Bronson, had written a book titled “What should I do with my life?” What a fundamental question, I thought, and wondered why someone had not written something similar before. The book, which I have not read, follows the life journey of many individuals, and examines the underlying reasons for varied career choices that they make.
I have never particularly cared to understand the reasons for choices that people make, beyond assuming that their choices are a reflection of what they believe is good for them. One class of people always intrigues me, though. These are the perennial cribbers. They seldom speak without whining. Conversations centre around their many troubles. It is as though the gift of life is actually a terrible curse that has befallen them. They find a lot to complain about, and little to be thankful for. These are not poverty or disease stricken individuals. They are otherwise normal, well to do people. They just seem to have a very negative outlook of life in general.
When I come across such people, I wonder if they are for real, and I am forced to conclude that they are not. Their misery is a sham, an act to garner attention, some sort of play-acting. If life is truly so terrible, surely there is an easy way out available to all. So why don’t they go down that path? Because, despite all their woes, they really do think that life is still good enough to keep living and not give up on. So can they shut up or at least punctuate their pessimistic utterances with the occasional outpouring of sunny cheer that is more reflective of their genuine beliefs please?
Among all that “needs improvement” with humankind, one thing is certainly the absolute minority of people with some kind of life plan. Many of us in the corporate sector, spend much time debating and perfecting strategies, mission and vision statements for our organizations. How many have given even a few minutes in developing one such statement for ourselves? Would it not help us in our lives to define for ourselves the values dearest to us that we wish to remain anchored to? Identify what we really want to achieve, and the things we will not compromise on? Even step back and look at our existence as a detached outsider, to see if we are headed in the right direction?
Seems a better way to go about things than generally meandering through one’s days with a vague sense of “Just want to be a good citizen, give my family a comfortable life, etc”.
I have never particularly cared to understand the reasons for choices that people make, beyond assuming that their choices are a reflection of what they believe is good for them. One class of people always intrigues me, though. These are the perennial cribbers. They seldom speak without whining. Conversations centre around their many troubles. It is as though the gift of life is actually a terrible curse that has befallen them. They find a lot to complain about, and little to be thankful for. These are not poverty or disease stricken individuals. They are otherwise normal, well to do people. They just seem to have a very negative outlook of life in general.
When I come across such people, I wonder if they are for real, and I am forced to conclude that they are not. Their misery is a sham, an act to garner attention, some sort of play-acting. If life is truly so terrible, surely there is an easy way out available to all. So why don’t they go down that path? Because, despite all their woes, they really do think that life is still good enough to keep living and not give up on. So can they shut up or at least punctuate their pessimistic utterances with the occasional outpouring of sunny cheer that is more reflective of their genuine beliefs please?
Among all that “needs improvement” with humankind, one thing is certainly the absolute minority of people with some kind of life plan. Many of us in the corporate sector, spend much time debating and perfecting strategies, mission and vision statements for our organizations. How many have given even a few minutes in developing one such statement for ourselves? Would it not help us in our lives to define for ourselves the values dearest to us that we wish to remain anchored to? Identify what we really want to achieve, and the things we will not compromise on? Even step back and look at our existence as a detached outsider, to see if we are headed in the right direction?
Seems a better way to go about things than generally meandering through one’s days with a vague sense of “Just want to be a good citizen, give my family a comfortable life, etc”.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
That time of year
It is early November, and summer is in the air in Sydney. The shirts are coming off the backs of joggers in the CBD. Silly season is nigh, and one gradually succumbs to the general flippancy pervading the atmosphere.
One watershed event marking the onset of silly season is the Melbourne Cup, which happens on the first Tuesday of November. A newcomer to the country would probably regard his first experience of the event as a complete waste of time, but warm up to it by the time the second or third edition comes around.
For the uninitiated, Melbourne Cup is the biggest horse racing event in Australia (or as publicists may say, in the “Southern Hemisphere”!). The nation comes to a standstill to watch the race. It is officially a holiday in Victoria and ACT. Although a working day in Sydney (New South Wales), it is pretty much a holiday in spirit, with people departing their offices by noon and getting together with friends/colleagues in pubs/restaurants. The actual race happens at 3 pm and lasts for only a couple of minutes, but it is flanked on either side by food, drink, betting and banter.
Most pubs/restaurants run their own little side events to add to the fun, so one has prizes handed out for “Best Hat”, “Best dressed”, and so on. Women turn out in outfits invoking memories of TV serials depicting Victorian England, complete with hats of amazing variety. Some of the men are dashingly dressed too, and I wouldn’t be surprised to come across someone sporting a monocle, bow tie and top hat at one of these dos.
The race is beamed on large TV screens in these establishments, and for those couple of minutes, it is impossible not to share in the excitement of the audience egging on their favourites, carrying not only jockeys, but also hundreds of thousands of dollars placed in bets. There is something captivating in watching those superb thoroughbreds thundering the tracks, culminating in a moment of exploding cheers and air punching, as you try to figure out who actually won.
After the race, as people gradually troop out of these establishments, a few dollars poorer or richer (usually the former) and a few beers down the gullet, the inner glow of an afternoon well spent matches that of the warm November sun.
For the record, this year’s winner was an underdog aptly named “Shocking”, and I lost eight dollars in the office sweepstakes.
One watershed event marking the onset of silly season is the Melbourne Cup, which happens on the first Tuesday of November. A newcomer to the country would probably regard his first experience of the event as a complete waste of time, but warm up to it by the time the second or third edition comes around.
For the uninitiated, Melbourne Cup is the biggest horse racing event in Australia (or as publicists may say, in the “Southern Hemisphere”!). The nation comes to a standstill to watch the race. It is officially a holiday in Victoria and ACT. Although a working day in Sydney (New South Wales), it is pretty much a holiday in spirit, with people departing their offices by noon and getting together with friends/colleagues in pubs/restaurants. The actual race happens at 3 pm and lasts for only a couple of minutes, but it is flanked on either side by food, drink, betting and banter.
Most pubs/restaurants run their own little side events to add to the fun, so one has prizes handed out for “Best Hat”, “Best dressed”, and so on. Women turn out in outfits invoking memories of TV serials depicting Victorian England, complete with hats of amazing variety. Some of the men are dashingly dressed too, and I wouldn’t be surprised to come across someone sporting a monocle, bow tie and top hat at one of these dos.
The race is beamed on large TV screens in these establishments, and for those couple of minutes, it is impossible not to share in the excitement of the audience egging on their favourites, carrying not only jockeys, but also hundreds of thousands of dollars placed in bets. There is something captivating in watching those superb thoroughbreds thundering the tracks, culminating in a moment of exploding cheers and air punching, as you try to figure out who actually won.
After the race, as people gradually troop out of these establishments, a few dollars poorer or richer (usually the former) and a few beers down the gullet, the inner glow of an afternoon well spent matches that of the warm November sun.
For the record, this year’s winner was an underdog aptly named “Shocking”, and I lost eight dollars in the office sweepstakes.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Too desi for my good
This has been on my mind for a while now, so I might as well get it out of my system.
Having lived in India for the first 35 years of my life, I decided, a couple of years ago, to spend some time overseas. I took up a job in Australia, and moved there with wife and kids.
We have been in Australia for the last two years, and on the whole it’s been a very enjoyable experience. I get to spend more time with family. There are no work-related calls after business hours or on weekends. The kids actually look forward to going to school. Travelling to work on public transport does not leave you all sweaty. Driving can actually be a pleasure. In the initial months, we missed our friends back in India . Over time, we made some great new friends, and now we have our own little social circle. The government actually works and people take rules seriously. There is peace and order. People say hello and smile at you across the shop counter. Life is good.
Despite the above, it is not my intention to “settle” in Australia. In all likelihood, we will be going back to India in a couple of years. Chit-chat in social gatherings among Indians living in Australia usually veers around to talk of permanent residency/citizenship at some stage. On hearing of my plans, the reaction from the listener varies from a frank expression of surprise, to a polite “Oh, I see”, betrayed by a look in the eyes which conveys complete puzzlement. I can accept that a lot of people find the prospect of leaving one’s homeland and settling down in Australia, very attractive. On the other hand, I would expect people to concede to the possibility that it is not inconceivable for one to choose to lead most of one’s life in the country of origin. And it really riles me that the burden of an explanation is so squarely placed on people in the latter category.
The really important decisions in life, such as one’s profession, choosing a life partner, or deciding where to live are seldom based on a calm and rational analysis of various pros and cons. One simply knows which path to choose. Working backwards, one can possibly lay out a set of seemingly plausible explanations to rationalize one’s choice of a particular path. Here are a few thoughts on the subject.
Having lived in India for the first 35 years of my life, I decided, a couple of years ago, to spend some time overseas. I took up a job in Australia, and moved there with wife and kids.
We have been in Australia for the last two years, and on the whole it’s been a very enjoyable experience. I get to spend more time with family. There are no work-related calls after business hours or on weekends. The kids actually look forward to going to school. Travelling to work on public transport does not leave you all sweaty. Driving can actually be a pleasure. In the initial months, we missed our friends back in India . Over time, we made some great new friends, and now we have our own little social circle. The government actually works and people take rules seriously. There is peace and order. People say hello and smile at you across the shop counter. Life is good.
Despite the above, it is not my intention to “settle” in Australia. In all likelihood, we will be going back to India in a couple of years. Chit-chat in social gatherings among Indians living in Australia usually veers around to talk of permanent residency/citizenship at some stage. On hearing of my plans, the reaction from the listener varies from a frank expression of surprise, to a polite “Oh, I see”, betrayed by a look in the eyes which conveys complete puzzlement. I can accept that a lot of people find the prospect of leaving one’s homeland and settling down in Australia, very attractive. On the other hand, I would expect people to concede to the possibility that it is not inconceivable for one to choose to lead most of one’s life in the country of origin. And it really riles me that the burden of an explanation is so squarely placed on people in the latter category.
The really important decisions in life, such as one’s profession, choosing a life partner, or deciding where to live are seldom based on a calm and rational analysis of various pros and cons. One simply knows which path to choose. Working backwards, one can possibly lay out a set of seemingly plausible explanations to rationalize one’s choice of a particular path. Here are a few thoughts on the subject.
- Home is where the heart is. When I walk down a street in India, I feel like I am on home ground. The atmosphere, the people, the events are all elements of a stage production, of which I am an original cast member. When news happens there, I relate to it, much more than I can to parliamentary debate on climate change or the plight of asylum seekers in a developed nation. When the Rajdhani express is stopped by miscreants, or the education minister scraps Class X board exams, my consciousness responds at a deeper level, because I have been there, done that. In a foreign country, I am a bystander to common topics of discussion, with little personal involvement. Integration with the wider community does not happen overnight.
- Identity. Indianness is a large part of my personality. Having lived there 35 years, its culture, lifestyle, cinema, sporting lore, politics, etc have permeated my being. These are not easily shaken off. Citizenship is a particularly ticklish issue. Call me naïve, but renouncing one’s passport and becoming a citizen of another country, constitutes a switching of allegiance. I cannot see myself ever rooting for Australia in a cricket match against India . It troubles me that people can become citizens of a country in brain and body, but refuse to yield, in their hearts, to their adopted land. This reflects a level of convenience and opportunism that I would find rather difficult to handle.
- No reason to quit. As per various reports published by the UN and other agencies from time to time, India is apparently a crappy country, ranking below hundred in the league tables on various human development indices. This is probably true for the millions of economically disadvantaged people in India, but I am fortunate enough not to belong to that category. I had well-to-do parents, who gave me a decent upbringing and access to a decent education. With no particular connections or assets other than an academic inclination and willingness to put in the hours, I was rewarded with admission to the country’s best schools and colleges, and well placed to compete for the most sought after jobs. For me at least, the system worked. Our opinions are shaped by our experience, and mine has, on the whole, been good.
- Parents. We should be near enough to our folks to support them in their old age. This is just one of those non-negotiable aspects of life. It’s gotta be done.
- Kids. “But what about your kids? Isn’t it much better for them here?” Perhaps. Time will tell. School is definitely less stressful here. But it is not as though kids lead deprived lives in India . In any case, they have their lives ahead of them. When they come of age, they can choose where they want to live.
These are my reasons. I can understand others may have entirely different views. To each his own.
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