The Art of choosing Sheena Lyengar

Được đăng lên bởi hht1992
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New	York			Boston

Begin	Reading
Table	of	Contents
Copyright	Page

To	Dad,	who	told	me	anything	was	possible
To	Mom,	for	being	there	every	step	of	the	way

Past	Is	Prologue
Everything	begins	with	a	story.
—Joseph	Campbell

I	was	born	in	Toronto,	one	month	early	and	during	a	blizzard	that	covered	the	city	in	snow	and	silence.
The	surprise	and	the	low-visibility	conditions	that	accompanied	my	arrival	were	portents,	though	they
went	unrecognized	at	the	time.	My	mother,	as	a	recent	immigrant	from	India,	was	of	two	worlds,	and
she	would	pass	that	multiple	identity	on	to	me.	My	father	was	making	his	way	to	Canada,	but	had	not
yet	arrived;	his	absence	at	my	birth	was	a	sign	of	the	deeper	absence	yet	to	come.	Looking	back,	I	see
all	the	ways	in	which	my	life	was	set	the	moment	I	was	born	into	it.	Whether	in	the	stars	or	in	stone,
whether	by	the	hand	of	God	or	some	unnameable	force,	it	was	already	written,	and	every	action	of	mine
would	serve	to	confirm	the	text.
That	is	one	story.	Here’s	another.
You	never	know,	do	you?	It’s	a	jack-in-the-box	life:	You	open	it	carefully,	one	parcel	at	a	time,	but
things	keep	springing	up	and	out.	That’s	how	I	came	into	the	world—suddenly—a	month	before	I	was
due,	 my	 father	 not	 even	 able	 to	 receive	 me.	 He	 was	 still	 in	 India,	 where	 my	 mother	 had	 always
imagined	 she,	 too,	 would	 be.	 Yet,	 somehow,	 she	 had	 ended	 up	 in	 Toronto	 with	 me	 in	 her	 arms,	 and
through	the	window	she	could	see	the	snow	whirling.	Like	those	flakes	of	ice,	we	were	carried	to	other
places:	 Flushing,	 Queens,	 and	 then	 Elmwood	 Park,	 New	 Jersey.	 I	 grew	 up	 in	 enclaves	 of	 Sikh
immigrants,	 who—like	 my	 parents—had	 left	 India	 but	 had	 also	 brought	 it	 with	 them.	 And	 so	 I	 was
raised	in	a	country	within	a	country,	my	parents	trying	to	re-create	the	life	that	was	familiar	to	them.
Three	days	a	week,	they	took	me	to	the	gurudwara,	or	temple,	where	I	sat	on	the	right	side	with	the
women,	while	the	men	clustered	on	the	left.	In	accordance	with	the	articles	of	the	Sikh	faith,	I	kept	my
hair	long	and	uncut,	a	symbol	of	the	perfection	of	God’s	creation.	I	wore	a	kara,	a	steel	bracelet,	on	my
right	wrist	as	a	symbol	of	my	resilience	and	devotion,	and	as	a	reminder	that	whatever	I	did	was	done
under	the	watchful	eyes	of	God.	At	all	times,	even	in	the	shower,	I	wore	a	kachchha,	an	undergarment
that	resembled	boxers	and	represented	control	over	sexual	desire.	These	were	just	some	of	t...
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