Adams to Franklin, Salinger to Updike

I had promised myself that I would blog furiously during my two months of forced bachelordom. Yet here I am with two days remaining, with not a single added entry.

I am still coming to terms with the change of job and the accompanying change of place. A few years ago, a cross-country move did not faze me, but now a move just a few Amtrak stops down the east coast feels more like an uprooting. The rolling stone did indeed gather some moss.

I do miss New Hampshire more than I expected to. I will try to describe our surroundings there for those who have not visited us. We lived in the sleepy town of Hollis, NH, about 50 miles northwest of Boston. It was a prototypical New England town in many ways. It was very sparsely populated, less than 2 people per acre of land. The lady at the registrar's office could recite your name and your dog's name from memory if you just give her the address. The majority of the town was all forest with tall pine, birch, ash and dogwood trees mixed in with unbelievably lush meadows and rivers and streams. The aquifers under the land drank copiously from these fresh water sources, so much so that the town's water supply system simply consisted of wells in each home. We lived next to large areas of reserve forest filled with criss-crossing trails where people walked, rode horses, camped, biked, and did 'snow-shoeing' in the winter. Our house was situated on a dirt road - a symbol of pride in those parts - lined with trees so dense that they formed a welcoming arch... an arch that turned from green to golden yellow to blood red in fall before withering away, only to sprout again in spring. We could take a mile-long walk along this road, past a horse farm and a house with a putting green in its front lawn and an apple orchard, and reach the town center. This was a quaint collection of church, market, firehouse, ball-field, and an old cemetery arranged in a charming triangle at the center of which was an island with a war memorial and a lawn for events like the summer strawberry festival or a flower show. There were farmers' markets where we could buy freshly picked fruits and vegetables, or we could go into the farm and pick them out ourselves. At the edge of town, there was a larger field shared with the neighboring town that held flea markets every weekend, except once a month in spring and summer when the owners of antique cars got together to show off their sparkling 1968 chevy's and plymouths. One of the main shopping centers of the state was just 15 minutes away in Nashua, but it might as well been a light year away. And of course, whenever we needed the bustle of the city, there was always Boston waiting just an hour away. I cannot say enough about this great city, its extra-ordinary history and culture, its walkability, its civic-mindedness. Those weekends spent walking the freedom trail, wandering in Newbury street and gazing across the waterfront will always remain with me. So one fine morning in August, I left all this and headed south, and now here I am in the outer suburbs of Philadelphia.

For most of the ordinary routine of life, things are much the same. There is a Costco down here carrying the same bale of paper towels in the exact same location in reference to its front door - 'advantages of scale' have ensured a certain familiarity wherever one goes in these United States of Generica. Beyond the routine, however, the texture and taste are certainly different, like a meal with the same staples but different spices. It hits you in many ways, subtle and loud. The traffic reports on the radio call out unfamiliar names that scramble one's phonetic radar ( the river in Philadelphia is pronounced 'skoo-kle', not 'sky-kill', as the spelling suggested to me). My disorientation is made worse due to the fact that my postal zip code maps to Eagleville, Norristown or Audobon depending on whch database you are looking at - a crazy outcome of the way in which Pennsylvania seems to subdivide into local governmental units. The landscape of course is different, but it takes a bit longer to notice differences in people. Texas had its twang and drawl of self-assuredness bordering on cockiness, California had its curious mixture of free spirit and political correctness, New Englanders are prim-and-propah and aloof, but form deep bonds once you cross the barriers. I haven't decided yet what stereotypes apply to Philadelphians. More than these general tendencies, the characteristics of the individual people we interact with will have a greater bearing on us. If it is true that the flow of our days are determined not only by our interests, but those of our social network, then each displacement brings a whole new experience with it.

All these changes leave me with a feeing of uncertainty, and the economic doldrums only add to that. But lest I get too despondent, a short walk from my apartment takes me to Valley Forge National Park, where the inscription on the memorial arch carries the words of George Washington:

"Naked and starving as they are,
We cannot enough admire
The incomparable Patience and Fidelity of the Soldiery"

It brings into sharp focus the relative ease and prosperity of our life as compared to those who blazed the trail before us. Three centuries ago, the bitter cold winter at this hallowed site almost put paid to the chances of birthing this new nation. John Adams faced a lot more than traffic jams when he took much the same route as I did from Boston to Philadelphia, but with the nobler quest of crafting the Constitution. Let me keep that in mind while I whine about the lack of a good desi grocery store nearby.

- Balaji.

No blogging for new dads

Photography, concerts, reading, movies, football on TV - all the things that I used to take for granted in my life have come to a screeching halt the past few months. Is it any wonder that the blog too has also taken a backseat ? Of course, the reason is the arrival of little Mr. Sanjeeva into our world. He claims every bit of our attention in our wakefulness and in our sleep, and we give it to him willingly. It is a mystery to me - where did we find the depths of forbearance and calm in the presence of a screaming baby, whose complaints we can only guess.

Oh, fear not, we have a plan - we have one official pediatrician, and at least 4 unofficial ones on call - a neighbor, an aunt and a couple of friends, all highly qualified doctors. And Nandini has by now read everything there is to be read on the intertubes on the subject of babies, twice over. That still does not guarantee however that I can tell if he needs to be burped or changed or held - that I find out strictly by trial and error.

The myriad minor day-to-day crises do not leave time even for, say, a lazy shower, much less for larger contemplation on the meaning of it all. The other day, in a fit of earnestness, I searched the web to see who shares Sanjeeva's birthday - as if the accident of the 365 day calendar is somehow a marker of a shared destiny. I came up with James Thurber, Dharmendra, William Durant, Mike Mussina and Johann Sibelius. So there - he could be a writer, actor, inventor, sportsman or composer. I tried to make more sense of it, but was interrupted by him making eyes at me.

One thing I have learnt however, is that we don't learn that easily. My prior experience with raising dogs is supposed to have helped, but it doesn't really. After buying tons of toys for the 4-legged ones - toys that squeak and toys that roll and toys with color, I then watched them play happily with random sticks and stones in the yard... So why am I surprised that Sanjeeva's best sources of entertainment right now are sundry light fixtures. He has not received the memo that if it doesn't have a FisherPrice label on it, it is not worth giggling at or talking to.

I do mean to blog about other things - maybe the actuarial value equivalence clause in the health reform bill - but right now I gotta go find his favorite pacifier so that peace may reign once again. Ciao.