Bald Marys

2007-10-08T03:25:00.000+06:00

Shelfari: Book reviews on your book blog

Blog Change! Blog Change! Blog Change!

2007-02-03T18:50:00.000+06:00

I cannot stand the ugliness of my blog anymore. So a blog change will happen, which will stimulate energinized blog post entries.

Okay, here's the new Blog: Cellar Door

Grrrr...

2007-01-25T18:37:00.000+06:00

All my original blog templates got lost when I switched to the new, improved blogger that seduced me with it labels and impressive customizable template design. :(

Tell me how to fix it, no? Come back widened post spaces, all my blog links...Come back single, non-ugly header:(

I will do a "real" blog soon!

Midpoint Conference

2006-12-15T16:22:00.000+06:00

....which is where I have been. In Nagpur. At a beautiful, ashram type jugga called Anandwan. Check it out. Pictures will happen one day.

Right now I am sitting at the Nagpur train station, catching up on email backlog, and writing a blog because actually replying back to everyone will take too long. Our train just got delayed by 2 hours which makes me grind my teeth in suppressed rage. Okay, not really. But I am quite irritable at the moment.

Anandwan was really nice. I wasn't really ready for a "midpoint" conference a third way through the fellowship, but it ended up being exactly what I needed. My eyes are itchy. And I crave for greedy, disgusting amounts of hot water poured on me. But my immediate wants are...to disappear into my thoughts with my ipod crooning into my ear as I watch India out my train window--sprawled and grand like some spoiled goddess--deceptively vast and empty.

Has any one of you ever played "Mafia"? I learned it this week, and it's a spectacular game, which we must play when we next meet:)

Back to Delhi

2006-11-24T13:37:00.000+06:00

I am not exactly sure why updating my blog always slips through the cracks. I love writing on here, and sharing my random experiences. But somehow sitting down and typing it out becomes...secondary. Anyway, here's my much belated Delhi post.

I was at the India Socialist Forum in Delhi last week. Before I go into all the vibrant chaos of the forum, I would like to sidestep into a rant.

A rant about foreigners in India.

Or more specifically of white people taking scenic pictures of local Indians without asking consent. A language barrier used as an excuse to forego basic manners and thought. It is not that hard to point to your camera and wobble your head inquiringly.

I was walking down that toxically dusty path at the forum which joins the north end to the south end, punishing those who hope to see seminars outside of their physical vicinity. It's where I see a large white man with his 30 lb fish-lens camera stop in his tracks, turn around and kneel in front of this little boy taking his bath outside a small strip of slums. Without a single word or even a smile, he got in close. Adjusted his lens. Zoomed in. And clicked. Wtf. When did it become okay for a stranger to take someone's picture while he was taking his bath?

I saw this happen twice. But the second time, there was atleast a smile involved which made it slightly less creepy

The thing that is particularly frustrating about these photographers, is that it is never the middle-class, English-speaking woman reading the newspaper at the bus-stand who gets her photo taken. It's always the slum kid bathing next to his spigot or the gap-toothed old lady from a village grinning uncertainly into the camera. Oh look, she doesn't know that her picture is being taken. Awww..

Okay...I am done ranting. I still haven't discussed brown kurtas and Sufi music...or the forum. Next week, next week...maybe *shrug*

Jaan - e - Maan!!!

2006-11-18T13:59:00.000+06:00

I have stuff to say about my recent Delhi trip, the India Socialist Forum, white people in India, dusty brown kurtas, Sufi music, dancing and activism. But not right now. That post is coming. In the meantime, I want to spread the word about Jaaneman...in that it Rocked! Lots! Go see it, and laugh till you leak endless tears and you are on the floor gasping for breath. Fabulous.

Here's yet another excellent review by Jabberwock.

Overheard in Bangalore

2006-11-06T13:55:00.000+06:00

Dude #1: You going to the party next week?
Dude #2: Nah, I am having scrotal problems.

- Majestic Bus Stand

Anniversaries and Kerala

2006-10-31T12:21:00.000+06:00

Time has sped up again, come in from its cosmic cigarette break. Back to business. I have been in India for two months today. And hey...wait a minute...this blog is a year old this month! **clapping** It all began with fancy broccoli burgers. Never fear, I have plenty more nonsensical, irrelevant chatter I want to share with the anonymous cyber public...

Diwali just came and went in our part of the world. I went to Kerala for a long weekend, and it was lovely. That lushness that sweeps the horizon, dipping and dancing. Air that breathes. For a few days, she stopped raining, kept the electricity generators running, and tried hard not to smother me in her sticky, moist embrace.

Kerala always manages to rearrange me in some way that I can never fully define. As if she has grabbed my soul and firmed it up for me. She stays with me even when I forget her.

Also I must give major props to Sanju, my cousin, who was wonderful and helped me navigate terrain that is more strange than familiar. Thanks, da':) My Malayalam has dramatically improved, I can now string together entire sentences. Entire sentences! The only catch is you can slip away from marriage questions far more easily if you can pretend not to understand anything. Or become suddenly fascinated by the smirking family goat, chewing on his lunch, looking distinctly smart-alecky.

Comment on our times

2006-10-26T12:19:00.000+06:00

...when early this morning I mistook a shard of sunlight on the dance floor of my Bharatnatyam class for the blinging of my cellular phone...

Yes, I am taking Bharatnatyam. It's cool and stuff.

Side-effects of Homesickness

2006-10-12T13:12:00.000+06:00

I was in a bookstore last week, and they were blasting 70s American music--stuff I normally can't stand. But I found myself lingering to listen, wandering the Business Management stacks, and tapping my feet to ABBA.

Sharmi Dairy

2006-10-07T17:32:00.000+06:00

Funny Ad that I saw when waiting for my food at a cafe.

"Sharam bolke bhi ek cheese hoti hai" Amitabh Bachan or wanna-be Bachan's voice-over booms. [Translates to: There's a thing called shame--a very recognizable filmi dialogue.]

And then you have a pound of cheese labeled, "Sharam Cheese"..hahaha...and the Bachan voice, goes, "Sharam Cheese better than Swiss Cheese."

I almost choked on my samosa, I was laughing so hard.

Monkeys in Bangalore

2006-10-05T12:18:00.000+06:00

I saw them last week, duelin' on our balcony. Two pale-furred monkeys squabbling viciously. Clawing. Angry. Apparently they visit once a month from Banaras. Or so I've been told. Anyone know different? Seriously, how cool is this? For those who might not know, monkeys are not common at all in Southern India. Our monkeys hang around Delhi, and don't mess with the dosa-eaters.

Speaking of dosa, something's missing from my diet. And that something is dairy--I am 89 percent sure. Gotta get on that curd. I don't normally drink milk--a habit which will have to come a swift end. I never fully appreciated how cheese-laden an American diet is.

When I gave up meat three years ago, I would have vivid dreams of juicy steak, chicken legs, and lamb. In India, I obssessively dream about food. Doesn't matter what's happening, at some point I will take a break to devour some rice and sambhar. Which is strange, since there is no shortage of rice-and-sambhar in my life right now.

Last night I dreamt I was eating chocolate ice-cream and banana-split sundae served to me by a white woman wearing a red uniform. In my dream, I am embarrased that the woman will know that they are both for me. To avoid this, I pretend I am waiting for someone to join me.

Update: Acha baba, monkeys live all over India not just the north. *sigh*

That Bike's a Chick-magnet

2006-10-03T11:45:00.000+06:00

Chakram-centered Orange, Green and White

2006-09-27T12:00:00.000+06:00

It's hard to stop thinking of India as a living, breathing sari-clad grandmother whose lap I've fallen into. Occasionally, it worries me that my thoughts of her are so often western--an outsider's thoughts. My sight, smell, touch are all Amrikan and when I speak, well...no one really believes me when I tell them I'm from Bombay.

But India has no patience for such neuroticisms. I can almost hear her. "Arre, vat is this buckwas? West, east. Who the hell cares?" She doesn't really have time for my patriotic confusion. She has too many people pulling on her palloo.

If I am here to find myself, she'll make sure and hide my soul inside my shoes--the last place I'd look. If I have come for mystical enlightenment, she'll mock me with her Barista coffeshops, swanky restaurants and pubs at every corner. If I say I've come to help, she'll laugh and tell me, "okay go ahead, little girl. Show me something I haven't seen before."

She loves to argue, to make sure you don't hold any too-firm opinions of her. If she senses your satisfaction at India's growth and economic vigor, she'll push one of her kids to your autorickshaw and strap a baby to his bare back--his lips cracked and bruised from thirst and need. If she sees you feeling sorry for her homeless, her hungry--she'll rush them off into one of her wonderful restaurants, and make you forget you ever saw them.

She loves to dance. And if you could add some red and make it shine, she will ask--why would you not?

Work is going well, if somewhat both slower and chaotic-er than I am used to. I don't plan to go into specifics about my NGO on here. It feels weird to discuss work in such a public space. So if you wanna know more, you are gonna have to email me:)

I tried to do pictures today. That is, Kodakize the bulk of them. But it took forever, and by forever I mean 30 minutes and still uploading...

Sooo, I'm just gonna do one picture at a time whenever, whatever.

These were taken about two weeks ago during Orientation in Delhi. It's a village we visited in Western Uttar Pradesh, during one of our site visits to an NGO who was helping these guys faciliate a school--with an emphasis on girls' education. It was really fun. The preview feature of our digital cameras was a super-smash hit.

These are some of my favorites.

one of many wtf moments...

2006-09-25T19:45:00.000+06:00

...I have many. But this one deserves sharing. Also it's short. It happened yesterday.

I was in the coffeeshop down the street--one of those chains, Coffee Cafe Dry or something. You know the one? With their bright red, Coca-cola table shades, and fabulous 80s/early 90s American music blasting. Red and blue uniformed workers serving lattes to young people and expats who are chatting it up on their shiny mobiles. So anyway, I went in not for coffee--but for their oily, veggie samosas. And as I've done a thousand times, I ask for some tamarind sauce. It was at this moment that all 5 Coffee Cafe employees turned to me with these identical expressions of confusion. "Tamarind?," one queried as if I was asking for some cocoa-drizzled pakoras. "What is that?," another asked me. Mind you, not "We don't have any." or "We don't carry tamarind." But "We don't know what you are asking."

What the fuck?

I said, "What do you mean what do I mean? You know what tamarind sauce is? With the samosa? Tamarind?" They all wobble-headed at me.

So my question to you, my fickle readers, am I alone here in thinking this is way weird? Maybe it's not called tamarind sauce? Maybe I should have said chutney? But I don't like green chutney. I like the tangy sweetness of tamarind only. *Sigh*

I've been reading Gautam Malkani's Londonstani--a book I am loving. It's hugely fun to read language that cackles with perfect desified, gangsta speak--almost surreal in how well it works. I'm about two-thirds into the book, and yes--there's an annoying tendency to blame all stubborn irrationality in the name of tradition on our Indian mothers, aunties, and sisters. But I forgive the book's steeply masculine take on things--it's too much fun to read. Under normal circumstances, I would attempt a book review. But I totally don't want to. Instead, here's a link to Jabberwock's excellent review.

So anyway, my long-winded reason for bringing up Londastani, was so I could explain why I've been standing around street corners thinking, "goddam, poncey khota," everytime some fool pretends I am not standing in front of him, and walks right into me. Bhanchod phendu asking for a thapparh.

Shopper's High

2006-09-20T20:36:00.000+06:00

The weather in Bangalore is glorious right now. There's a wonderful market about 15 minutes walk from my house.

All the tourist books/websites always include the phrase, "hum of excitement" when talking about India. As a desi-reader, you invariably shake your head and mutter, "vat yaar, vat hum? there is no humming here." But I am telling you, there is! There is! Everytime I walk through the gully with those wonderful vegetable vendors and their mounds of fresh, earthy okra and bhindi and karela sold for pennies a pound. That whiff of coriander intoxicating. Everytime I pass by those pyramids of cakes, ice-creams and burfis from the sweet shop. Everytime yet another gold and red kurta catches my eye, and the shop-wallah pounces on the twinkle in my eye, "Mem-sahib, vat is your interest? Only 100. High-quality item." There it is...that hum, that tingling under my skin. That sudden surge of joy--unexpected and welcome after another stress-packed day.

What is about a shop-wallah's single lit 100-watt bulb hanging naked down the front of his little store, lighting up the crowd gathered around him in the late evening light--shouting pointlessly "arreee...100 only! No bargaining! Fixed Price!", that makes me think of home, safety and warmth all bundled up in one somehow. Somehow. I know there was a store in my building from my neighborhood, with his single-lit, naked bulb. That evening light--a small space tucked into your day--right before darkness cloaks the streets, and all the mothers yell at their children to come home "Right now!!". "Mummy, ek aur minute!". The store-wallah watches you gloomily and occasionally shouts, "go away, ghar jao!"

Moments in time that somehow managed to become words.

Getting Around

2006-09-17T18:50:00.000+06:00

My 4th day in Bangalore and I'm finding that it's a huge-ass city.

I've no idea how big exactly, since I effectively only travel about 30 miles an hour on the rickshaw. I love these little 3-wheeled pollution-spewing, rickety wagon-with-engines psuedo-cars. I find the bumpy, vibrating floor soothing. Also I totally dig that you can practically stick your entire body out the door and feel that heavy thick traffic smog rush past you. Sure, I'm too aware of my lungs these days, and my skin is decidedly gritty. But occasionally the air clears, and you can say hi to folks in the auto next to you since they are 3 inches from your face. Lovely. Seriously.

Also haggling with auto-wallahs, trying to decide if he's gonna drive you round and round the city to up the meter, which language would be best to use with him--all of it..good times, good times. I'm finding it really hard to tell one street apart from another here. I've my own home and workplace down, but everything else looks like every other street.

For the most part, if I wanna get someplace, the auto-wallahs find it for me and take me there. I still haven't decided if they really don't know where they are going or if they just wanna circle the block one more time. I tend to give 'em the benefit of the doubt since a). I've no other choice, I don't know where anything is. b). And here's the kicker...every other street or so is a one-way, but the direction of the one-way changes every two days or something. So it might take you 10 minutes to get from point A to point B, but going back might take you twice as long. Why do this? It's best not to ponder the whys too much.

Travel is very cheap--for less than a dollar, I can usually get anyplace I want to. And people are overwhelmingly nice. They wanna help you for no apparent reason. And no it's not because I have "foreigner" sketched across my forehead. It might be, but I don't think I look that firangi. I blend. I blend.

Also, I rode on the back of a motorbike two days ago. Helmet-less. Holy shit. I asked the dude I was with to please drive slowly, which he did, probably risking our lives in the process. Did I mention I saw a motorbike accident our last night in Delhi? Well I did. It was completely horrible. The dude's head had smashed open, blood everywhere. I'm over it, but it is
branded into my brain permanently. I was more than a little nervous when I saw our proposed mode of transportation. I kept thinking, "man, that concrete looks oh so hard."

"Can we take an auto?"--Me
"No problem" *head nod*
"I'll pay for it."--Me
"No problem" *head nod*

It turned out to be fun. There's nothing quite like having one of those giant, ugly lorries brush by your knees as your driver squeezes between that maruti and bus. And also driving into oncoming traffic on your tiny little scooter, ahh...it reaffirms life.

My work. I started two days ago--a day ago officially sort of--and so far I've been to a couple of meetings. I'm still learning how things function, and what my role exactly is. I'm grateful that the smaller, staff meetings (that doesn't include community members) are in English, which I hope is not for my benefit alone. But whenever I'm not at a meeting, and I peek in, they are talking Kannada.

I've met some cool people--a lot of mallus, I'm practicing my Malayalam. It's torturous to hear me talk my mallu to some very patient people. In my defense, I think a large reason why I'm having so much trouble stringing sentences together is because I'm not used to talking politics, culture, or human rights in Malayalam. I've no words in my language, only in English. It's interesting. Sometimes I just give up, and switch to Hindi or English. The organization I work for is this small, but vibrant human rights NGO. I will write more about it later.

We have moved into our house. We did it bright and early yesterday morning. I like our home a lot. We have a mango tree, a garden, our own bathrooms and this huge balcony. We live in a busy area of town, which has its pros and cons. Biggest con being there's a lot of "aimless youth" just hanging out outside the shops across the street. I'd prefer they hang elsewhere. But I haven't had any problems so far.

Overall, life is chugging along as it always does. It's been stressful. But I can feel myself settling. Slowly, I'm getting used to my new life. I am already feeling pangs of homesickness, but nothing too terrible. After a particularly stressful day, I wrote this in my little notebook that I carry around with me. It made me laugh when I read it the next morning.

"I hate that I'm a foreigner in India. I feel like screaming, "you don't understand, I was made to belong to you." and India is bitch-slapping me in reply."

She's calmed down since then:)

Bang A Lore

2006-09-13T09:32:00.000+06:00

Arrived in Bangalore yesterday. A few of us traveled from Delhi to Bangalore by train, which took about 40 fun-filled hours. Delhi railway station was insane, and I am still not sure how we managed to haul ourselves and about 17 pieces of luggage over the train tracks, under the bridge and over the platform. An army of coolies, a rickety old wheelbarrow and a spectacularly priced 700 Rupees helped. The accomodations were cramped, claustrophic, but oddly comfortable (except for the bathrooms, which were kind of traumatic. Thankfully I was mercifully constipated.) The tea from the chai-walla was wonderful. Sharp, yet sweet. If I accomplish nothing else in my time here, I will at the very least learn to make tea like that. No wonder my parents talk of tea like its some ambroisa from the Gods.

I was robbed my first night on the train. I was sleeping (apparenly quite deeply since I don't remember any of this) and some fool rifled through my purse which I had by my feet. They took all my Indian money and my newly acquired desi cell phone. Very very thankfully, he didn't take any of my Amrikan dollars, nor my passport (which is worth--I'm told--about 7000 US Dollars in the black market.) He also didn't take my ipod. Just all things Indian. I'm over it. I was irritated at first, but what'dyou gonna do? It could have been so much worse.

Everyone that I've met so far have been so unbelievably kind and warm. People--sometimes random strangers--have bent over backwards to make sure we are settling in as comfortably as possible. On the train, one of the fellow's uncle happened to be traveling on the next compartment, and he was so kind. We were saved from eating e-coli-laced biryani. He had wonderful home-made matri, and dhokla and spicy chappatis.

Here's what's weird. Whenever I travel in the states, whether I'm going to new york or philly or Iowa by train, bus or plane, I invariably get atleast a little sick. Some little bug somewhere gets the best of me. But I've yet to get sick here. My immune system is a tough little soldier. **cyber knock on wood**

In India, if you think too much about how you are going to get things done, you will drive yourself insane. Everything has this way of working out somehow. Alright, gotto go. I'll update more later. Bangalore is a much more internet friendly city.

bunch of stuff and the ambassador sucks

2006-09-08T20:17:00.000+06:00

Jet lag was kicking my ass, leaving me each day in a bloody pulp. But it's stablizing. So far I've lost all sense of time, I've acquired the desi head nod, my hindi has improved dramatically, I've a bunch of newly discovered opinions on development, my life in the US seems like another lifetime, I'm grateful when I get 6 hrs of sleep all in a row. I've also had odd moments when I'll be in some swanky pub in Delhi or dinner someplace and I'll totally forget I'm in India. These are weird moments. Surreal. It feels like DC, and I'm getting ready to head back to my Namaste House. Then I'll step outside, and that humidity will hit me like a ton of bricks, I'll haggle with the rickshaw-dude, and it will hit me for the 20th time that day...umm, I'm in India and will be staying.

Life is chugging along:) In a couple of days, I will be shipped off to Bangalore which I'm very much looking forward to. I'm a touch worried about the settling in process, but not overly. let's see...update.

The US ambassador to India is thoroughly obnoxious. In his defense, I must say I was already irritated when we sifted through security to find a huge expanse of lawn complete w/ two (not one, two) huge water fountains pouring out copious, disgusting amounts of clean-looking water. He had a small one inside his house too. Irritation. The US embassy has that "natives stay away" feel to it. After we arranged ourselves, and drank some fantastic iced tea, smooched with a couple of foreign service officers who were incapable of saying anything that didn't feel processed and packaged like cheese. Oh and the kicker was when the ambassodor introduced himself to a group of us, and when he got to a fellow who was placed in Gujurat had the apalling bad taste to say, "well when you get back to the states you will be staying in motels for free." *what?* *oh no, he didn't** The man knows about as much about development and human rights, as I do about investment banking.

I'm ready for orientation to be over. I have been for about 3 days. The staff have been wonderful, the NGOs we've heard from have been great, and the two sites visits we did were really fun. But I'd still like it to all be over, so I can start work. Two more days.

I'll try to do pictures. Right now that's not gonna happen. My future roommates apparently must have internet at home, so I might have regular connection when I get to bangalore.

Chalega!

2006-09-01T19:43:00.001+06:00

Namaste from Internet cafe in Delhi!:) It's been a little over 24 hrs since I've been in India, and I've gone through internet withdrawal all day. A bunch of us went to this huge marketplace after our orientation session today, where I haggled my way out of 50 whole cents for this cute little kurta piece. I'm trying to train my brain to not automatically convert rupees into dollars. So when I hear 225, my brain screams, "225 dollars!!", when in fact it's like what...5$? But the surest way to kill a good haggle is to not look offended and outraged at the price.

Anywayy. My first day here has been hectic, overwhelming, slighly dizzying so far. The orientation session was meek today. We did silly ice-breaker stuff that was lame. But then the Exec. Director of the foundation gave a talk on NGOs and it was a nice overview of all the stakeholders involved. It was kind of great to hear a non-academic perspective.

I have this notebook where I scribble on all day, but I forgot it up in my room. Oh, so I have a Chalega story! For non-hindi speakers, Chalega literally means "keep walking" or something. But vernacularly, it means "it's okay,", "it's not a big deal". I use it whenever I wanna say No, but I wanna be polite about it. Or if I don't really care about the question posed. Versatile word no? Yes, my favorite word. So my story is I've been using it all over Delhi! So of course, instead of politely taking no for an answer, the shopkeepers have been like, "Chalega, kya chalega?" hahah...Okay, not so exciting story. heeheh

I've lots more stories, I'll try to update with them next time. Pictures are going to unlikely, I've seen no usb port anywhere. And it takes foreverr to upload pictures on a good day. This machine that I'm typing on is about a thousand years old.

Oh also, I don't understand how more people don't die in Delhi! Someone somewhere once said it's because there are so many gods in India, we all have an immortal watching out for us. I risk my life everytime I cross the street. My strategy so far has been following cows and little children into onrushing traffic. Still alive:)

Chalega!

2006-09-01T19:43:00.000+06:00

The Blog will go on...

2006-08-30T11:05:00.000+06:00

...hopefully...probably.

I didn't want the Harris piece to be my last post in the US this year. Soo...here's an annoucement for Blog Day. Cool.

(via Desipundit)

Harris be gone already

2006-08-29T21:03:00.000+06:00

I don't know why I am blogging this. I am not a Floridian. I am not Republican. I will have no influence over Ms. Harris's campaign to run for the US senate. Apparently, many other Republicans are rightfully embarassed for her/ by her. But even still.

As I scramble to finish packing, tie up loose ends, and ignore the occasional butterfly flapping around in my belly; I take a moment to cringe at the woman's ..umm..what's the word...yuckiness?

Recently, she told a religious journal "that separation of church and state is "a lie" and God and the nation's founding fathers did not intend the country be "a nation of secular laws." Oh really.

According to Harris, the separation of church and state is "wrong because God is the one who chooses our rulers." (Link)

She goes on to add "that if Christians are not elected, politicians will "legislate sin," including abortion and gay marriage." (Link)

Thankfully, we still live in a country where we do not endorse any missions to eradicate sin in the US senate.

Two-more-days dreams

2006-08-28T11:53:00.000+06:00

I woke up this morning and had the following, disconcertingly lucid thought--Two more days. It had a vaguely ominous ring. These are my dreams from last night--heavily censored, but the meat of it still intact.

I tend to dream in small, episodic increments (hence the list)--sometimes related, more often not.

I am living with my cousin and we are shopping for okra at an outdoors market. I haggle my way to two huge bags of bhindi and green chillis. I take them home, to my refrigerator which is stuffed full of vegetables. Tomatoes are bleeding out to my kitchen floor. I am chewing on raw, glossy eggplants.
I am strolling down a hallway that's part of my high school. In fact, I'm back in high school. I'm in Mrs. Levanthal's 6th period, Spanish class and I have just decided to take a break. I am thinking about how much I love walking down emptied hallways & running my fingers over the locker doors. Banging down those little, round sundial locks. Twirling its knobs. Click-click-click.

It's the night's kaleidscope bending the broken, colored pieces of my life into her own floral, dreamy orderliness.

scared silly

2006-08-24T23:05:00.000+06:00

Before the Bush reign, I had always assumed that when as Americans, we find ourselves swindled out of our civil liberties, there would be a national uproar. After all Clinton almost got impeached for bad judgements made that affected none of us. Surely when our basic tenets of democracy & freedom are stifled, the stakes will be higher--the accounts more exacting, more demanding.

Such naivety.

How did Bush manage to do what he has done? Among other things, how did he manage to detain an American citizen for over three years before the courts decided to grow some fallopian tubes and force him to charge the man with a crime? Theories and punditry abound, and I don't plan to add to the clamour here. But in the wake of the UK terrorist plots, I've been noting the hysterics of our airport security. And for what?

Remember it was the "plot to commit murder on an unimaginable scale"? No more pepsi, toothpaste nor--horrors--laptops or i-pods aboard aircrafts. They could be fashioned into bombs, we were told. And most of us agreed. Reasonable request. Minor inconvenience.

After all, the UK intelligence swooped down and nabbed these baddies right at the nick of time. I imagine terrorists snarling their way through the London airport with a little bit of puppy blood staining their fangs as they proceed to "commit murder on an unimaginable scale". Unimaginable, they said.

Then I read this report by Craig Murray that's been making the rounds in the blogosphere. None of the alleged terrorists had made a bomb. None had bought a plane ticket. Many did not even have passports.

Then I heard this NPR report on the plausibility of making a bomb out of liquids.

Truth is like contact lenses you drop on the bathroom floor. It leaves you blind and groping, hoping to catch a glint of light across that concave glass.

It is not simply that such information is largely absent from the public discourse, which is irksome and disconcerting. But that this information is largely ignored altogether when piecing together national security. Policy considerations are reduced to ideological and reactionary fervor, appealing to the least thoughtful amongst us.

Last week, House Homeland Security Chairman Peter King endorsed requiring people of "Middle Eastern and South Asian" descent to undergo additional security checks because of their ethnicity and religion. more

This came shortly after, Fox News queried whether "It's time to have a Muslims check point line in American airports and have Muslims be scrutinized." more (via Sepia Mutiny)

Check out all the work our security authorities have been busy with lately:

Shortly after that, British holidaymakers staged an unprecedented mutiny - refusing to allow their flight to take off until two men they feared were terrorists were forcibly removed. The extraordinary scenes happened after some of the 150 passengers on a Malaga-Manchester flight overheard two men of Asian appearance apparently talking Arabic. more
Iraqi Peace Activist Forced to Change T-Shirt Bearing Arabic Script Before Boarding Plane at JFK.
A Muslim doctor gets kicked off the plane. (Link)
A claustraphobic, 59-yr-old woman was arrested by the FBI and her plane escorted by military jets. For "causing a disturbance".
The latest flight that didn't reach its destination resulted inthe arrest of 12 passengers. Because apparently, some of the passengers pulled out cell phones during the flight and appeared to be trying to pass the cell phones to other passengers, a U.S. government official said. In addition, some passengers unfastened their seatbelts while the light requiring they be fastened was still illuminated, the official said. That was enough for U.S. air marshals aboard the DC-10 to break their cover. more ..These charges, however, have nothing to do with terrorism.
And lastly, Azad Amin decided to tell TSA that the object in his luggage bag was a bomb. 'Cuz he didn't want his momma to know he was carrying around a penis pump. Moronic? Surely. But a potential 3 year prison sentence?

Didn't Aesop warn us about crying wolf? Security is heightened to that fever pitch that comes with misguided ideology, fear and paranoia. I'm flying next week, and I am more concerned about tightly-wound security officials than I am of any terrorists. Remember those movies where a governmental big-shot looms protectively over his brethen and say, "We cannot let this get out! It will cause a public panic!" Now the government thinks up ways to ensure we don't feel too safe, too comfortable.

Kill the Animators

2006-08-22T04:35:00.000+06:00

Sweet little piece of animation from Deviant Art.

Click Here

The Post that wasn't

2006-08-21T13:01:00.001+06:00

After an obnoxious (yet completely familiar) conversation with a fellow Iowan, I started furiously planning out a biting blog on cultural idiocy. Perhaps a "10 things I hate about living in the US" list. Inspired in part by Andy's one year anniversary blog post. By the way, sidenote: Congratulations Andy!

But by the time I settled in front of my laptop, I could no longer remember why I had my knickers up in knots in the first place. And I couldn't think of ten things that didn't sound uncomfortably close to whining. So it got scrapped.

But I have noticed that over the years, I am increasingly intolerant of questions that end in "is that a cultural thing?" or any mention of "dots on my forehead". Or even an innocuous, well-meaning compliment on the "costume" I am wearing.

Go google it. I am not your anthropology subject, fool.

And now that I've gotten warmed up on the matter...how many years do I have to live in this country before people stop clarifying for me, "Because you are Indian, right?". Is it that hard to believe that I am weird independent of my desi origins? Okay, don't answer that.

Also isn't it obvious by now that I don' t know Gopal from Maryland or Shashi from New York? That your real estate agent is Indian means nothing--absolutely nothing--to me (except a cue for awkward head nod and smile). Watch more television! These queries are punchlines to a hundred sitcom jokes. For the love of the goddess, no I do not know Swathi from Detroit or Imran from Virginia..oh wait..I do know them...umm..nevermind...*slaps forehead*

Also yeah, I have an accent. Get over it. Please. As quickly as possible.

Ah, and here I was thinking I had successfully side-stepped a rant. No such luck. A rant cometh and spews forth like some shaken up coca cola can, spraying its sugary browness all over my little cyber nook.

Omkara Trailer

2006-08-16T22:25:00.000+06:00

Omkara

Soon soon, patience patience. Sadly, Omkara is not showing anywhere around me:( I will valiantly fight urge to watch pirated, DVD copy. I want to see Vivek Oberoi and Saif Ali Khan in their full, original, technicolor glory. **ahh, Vivek Oberoi..sigh**

Africa's Hotness

2006-08-16T02:06:00.000+06:00

The New York Times recently reported on Africa's increasing trendiness among celebrities. Behold Gwyneth's new Ad Campaign to help African children.

And much as it may strain the limits of good taste to say it, Africa — rife with disease, famine, poverty and civil war — is suddenly “hot.”

Beginning early in the decade with a trickle of celebrity fact-finding missions to strife-torn sub-Saharan nations (Bono in Ghana, Bono everywhere) that became a torrent within the last couple of years (Clay Aiken in Uganda, Jessica Simpson in Kenya), Africa has now been embraced by the masses...more

Irritating? Yes.

Thankfully others are being sarcastic and mocking, so we can all stop grinding our teeth.

(Via Mixed Media Watch Blog)

Headlines in Progress

2006-08-14T00:35:00.000+06:00

Today the headlines at the Washington Post flashed Israeli Cabinet Approves U.N. Cease-Fire Deal. Directly below was the New York Times, with this-- Israel Presses Into Lebanon Ahead of Truce

Who needs UN resolutions when you can make up laws as you go along?

Shameful.

It's Official, Reading is Hot

2006-08-13T11:53:00.000+06:00

According to a survey of over 2,000 adults..., books play a crucial role in influencing our opinions of strangers. Half of those asked admitted that they would look again or smile at someone on the basis of what they were reading.

Not only does sitting with your nose in a book positively influence others' opinion of you, it could actually - get this - lead to sex. A third of those surveyed said that they "would consider flirting with someone based on their choice of literature". It's finally official, people. Reading is hot...more

(Via this great post from Roswitha)

My own reading-in-public moments:

One day on the subway for about twenty minutes, I was completely taken by this brooding sort who had his head buried in Murakami.

Last summer, I was reading Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being inside the Smithsonian's sculpture garden with my feet dipped in the pool around the water fountain. The girl sitting next to me asked me if I liked the book. I said no. She smiled happily and said, "Me neither".
Three weeks ago, at Starbucks, a boy two tables down shouted at me, "Don't you love Tom Robbins?" I nodded my head. Sorta. "I am so happy you are reading that. You will love the ending." Just for the record, I didn't. Although I did like the book.
Three years ago, this woman asked me out while I was trying to finish up my time with Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead as quickly as possible. The awkward conversation was a welcome distraction from the oppressive narrative I had clouding my head.

Terrorism-Related Observation of the Day

2006-08-12T00:45:00.000+06:00

Today's vaguely sinister, Google observation.

In a flurry of gmails, discussing the latest thwarted terrorist attempts, my cousin noticed that google had stopped their infamous tailored Ads. Anytime Islam, Israel, Lebanon or terrorism is mentioned all Ads stop.

Click on the image to make it bigger.

Even if conversation shifts to other pressing topics...

I Want Dooze!!

2006-08-11T02:04:00.000+06:00

He rushed into the store, screeching "Dadddddyyyyy!", flopping his tiny little limbs around—eyes manic, crazed. Crack-smoker eyes. A haggard-looking Daddy squinted at his child and arranged his face to Stern.

"Beta, this lady will scold you if you keep shouting." I looked up, alarmed. Who? Me? What? I smiled uncertainly while moving swiftly away. I will do no such thing, I muttered inside my head. In typical crack-head fashion, the kid rushed up and down the aisles, poking stuff, examining anything he could pick up before dropping it pleasurably—thud!—on the floor. "Beta, no!" A pathetic plea really as The Dad trailed after him, picking up pastas, rice, sugar, potato sacks. "Papa is not happy!"

I don't advocate violence against children. That's wrong and stuff. But would it really be so terrible if before leaving the privacy of their home, the dad would loom menacingly down on the boy and snarl, "If you misbehave, I will spank your bum pink when we get home. Understood?"

Now don't get me wrong. If there is anything that's more cringe-inducing than watching a kid stomp all over their parent, is watching adults hit their children in public. But of course, the only times I have seen this has been when the child is behaving normally with minor infractions. So it becomes this horrible moment when you realize how utterly powerful adults, and you are witnessing abuse of that power.

I started thinking about when I used to teach junior high kids at this after-school club. During class, one of my students was sent to the principal's office largely because the teacher was this utterly manic mess of a woman who doled out punishment like it was going out of style, especially if you were on her shit-list. Admittedly, my student was a known trouble-maker, class-disrupter—but basically a good kid (actually one of my favorites). Later on that day, I sat down with him and talked to him about it. I made the mistake of telling him that I agreed with him and that Mrs. Frequently-Insane had been somewhat unfair. (He had been late to class by about 2 seconds.) He looked up at me, mildly horrified, and wailed, "Why didn't you do something?" I was speechless. "umm..because you are her student during first period, not mine?" Bleh. Everytime I see a public smacking, he wails in my head, "Why don't you do something?"

"I want Dooze!!," the kid's shriek could only mean one thing. He had spotted the twinkling, sparkly, multi-colored juices inside the refrigerator. Unable to figure out how to slide open the doors, he simply jabbed at the glass and croaked, "Doozze!". Quite suddenly parched with thirst. In a valiant attempt at discipline, the father grabbed the groceries and left the store (to the mild horror of everyone else). He watched worriedly through the glass as his child flung himself on the ground and flopped around like a fish. Defeated, the man came back in and bought the drink. Fanta made a buck that day.

Kerala's own Led-Zepplin:)

2006-08-09T21:41:00.000+06:00

Avial 's Nada Nada

Complete with hot mallu guy running in the rain. Nice.

Madonna Brings Peace to the Middle-east

2006-08-09T01:50:00.000+06:00

This is great.

I mean, I am embarassed for Madonna. I am. But she's begging to be chuckled at.
**mocking, finger-pointing, derisive laughing here**

Here's an excerpt from the wonderful Amelie Gillete who blogs at AV Club's The Hater.

When she's not replacing the cracked mirrored tiles on her disco crucifix, Madonna is trying to make a political statement about something, anything, that's more controversial than she's trying so hard to be. This week it's the Hezbollah-Israeli conflict...more

and then this..

Interpretation: Madonna is the one, disco-y bridge between these two warring factions. She is the only person who can bring them together in peace (also dance)...more

Go read. It's funny.

Being unreasonable

2006-08-08T10:05:00.000+06:00

I got one of those lonely planet, travel books for India today. I know I'm being unreasonable, but did it have to be quite so touristy? In DC, I would watch tourists on the metro with their shiny maps and travel guides, and the part of me that wasn't looming above them--snickering, was wishing I could have a quick peek. So now I have one of my own.

Inexplicably, Joggers Park was one of the recommended movies to watch before heading off to India. There's also a particularly irritating section devoted to female travelers--that has succeeded in making me antsy about cab drivers. But regardless, it looks like it might be useful. It's brimming with information about almost every major city in India.

The closer I come to my departure date, the more rapidly I am forgetting any useful information I used to have about growing up in India. While I don't feel particularly nervous or concerned about my life next month, my sub-conscious is apparently a bit on edge. I had two dreams this week.

On Saturday I dreamt I was no longer Indian. I had turned white and had long red hair. I also had a twin sister. We fought constantly.

And then last night, I dreamt I was denied entry by the Indian custom officials because of my affiliation with Irish terrorists. I was furious and threw my keys at them in a psychotic rage. But then abruptly, I was driving a jeep through Kerala. It was beautiful. In my dream, Kerala looked like those national geographic photographs of Africa. Which is slightly shaming, but I'm over it.

Ideas of Heaven: A Ring of Stories by Joan Silber: Book Review

2006-08-07T03:26:00.000+06:00

Exquisitely told tales of sensual, spiritual journeys…
This is somewhat typical, if overly fawning, of the reviews for this National Book Award finalist—Joan Silber for her collection of short stories, Ideas of Heaven: A Ring of Stories. But I had a slightly different take...*yawn*

Not only did I think her stories were unoriginal and uninteresting, I thought a lot of her writing was simply lazy. I found the very narrative structure of the stories irritating. The 50 foot overview or character studies, whichever, left these figures empty and lifeless. A book full of flimsy life stories/ histories strung together by gimmicky connecting characters. All of them uniformly dressed up with the same tired self-loathing and tortured love affairs.

A Ring of Stories has a mildly interesting premise.

An insignificant tertiary character in the preceding story becomes the main narrator of the following story. The collection ends with the re-appearance of the woman who we had met in the very first story. A Ring of Stories, get it? Yes, we get it. She makes the pattern easy to figure out for the first few stories, and then attempts to get clever later.

It isn’t really that I thought the stories were bad necessarily. Just…somewhat uninspired and mundane. The writing is good, but simple, often redundant and lacking in fervor. Each of the stories seems fashioned out of a short story template. There are characters who lead uninspired, listless lives, but eventually fall in love. The love frequently curdles in some way, and there’s usually a period of pain and sadness. At some point past the painful period, catharsis is achieved. There is closure. Lessons are learned.

Silber is trying to capture the spectacular in the ordinary. In the process, these lives become unintentionally uniformed in thought, insignificant and deeply un-spectacular.

I read this book months ago, and prompty sold it back to the used bookstore I got it from. Hence sadly, I have no damning evidence of mediocrity to show you. Reading the seattle review above, I am amused again by how completely I disagree with this Michael fellow. How is it that we were reading the same book? It is possible that the book is not as bad as I remember it, I suppose. Although Michael does seem to like Alice Munro, who I also think is un-spectacular (I must admit I have only read one of her books--that horrible "modern-day" recreation of Wuthering Heights...Heathcliff reincarnated as abusive jackass. *shudder*).

Update: Oops!! Not Alice Munro. Alice Hoffman wrote that horrible book reworking Bronte. I have never read Munro. My memory is failing me in old age:(

Brownsploitation Action

2006-08-04T01:23:00.000+06:00

Solla Solla Enna Perumai

The folks over at Sepia Mutiny, called this the coolest example of Brownsploitation video ever.

So so true.

I'm Not Gonna Be Your Monkey

2006-08-02T00:08:00.000+06:00

Crossfire with Jon Stewart

This is almost two years old, I think. But I had never seen this until now, I don't watch Crossfire (although I have been to a taping of their show).

One of the joys in my life is to watch Jon Stewart-- beautifully, articulately and with gratifying ease--hammer down partisan politics.

Watch how he exposes Tucker Carlson for the needling, insipid clown that he is. Note also how Jon Stewart becomes a "journalist", but then gets cramped back into "comedian" whenver it is convenient for whatever line the Crossfire boys are attempting to try out at the moment. It's fun to watch their confusion at a guest who won't just pick a left or a right and stick with it.

Click here to see Jon Stewart's reaction to his Crossfire appearance on the Daily Show.

Click here and here for more beautiful television making by the daily show.

Untitled

2006-08-01T11:05:00.000+06:00

I sway, seduced
by peppered promises
Made. In
the lazy air. Silk
in the sizzling, sweet jazz.
Exclamations, Proclamations, Declarations
jest. Fools and Clowns in love
waiting impatiently.

Glittering confessions
Sit. Carelessly perched
right near the tip
of my soft,
weak
tongue.

--circa 1999

For no Reason

2006-08-01T09:02:00.000+06:00

For no reason,
Your voice
soothes me, calms
me, follows me
through my day.
Like long, slender fingers
Carelessly drumming
a mindless tune that
For no reason,
I sang
throughout today

--circa 1999

Packing is not going well

2006-07-26T00:35:00.000+06:00

I blame the world wide web.

I keep blogging instead of compressing all of my room's contents into boxes. Am I really leaving tommorrow? Unreal. My lamps, winter coat and comforter will be left behind. I am fiercely tempted to just leave everything behind that won't fit into my suitcases. I waffle between "I've tons of room and time" to..."I'm so screwed". So far I have procrastinated in the following ways: (Note that four out of the seven activities require our cable modem.)

1). Blog at Bald Marys

2). Email my cousins my "anger triggering" points. There are 7 of them.

3). Chat with people on Gmail chat.

4). Download the music to Omkara after reading the following post. Excellent music.

5). Make and eat lunch. Grilled cheese sandwich with ketchup. It's my backup food--food when no food is around.

6). Upload photos from this weekend onto my laptop. Look at them. Think about Kodak-izing and sending them to everyone involved.

7). Make lists.

That's not Halal Meat

2006-07-25T23:15:00.000+06:00

Strange stuff going down in a Virginia Grocery store...click here

When the butcher stepped out seconds later, the customer's severed left hand lay on the floor by the meat saw, Asghar said. The customer ran down the Springfield store's center aisle and into the front parking lot, leaving a trail of blood and yelling repeatedly that he was "not a terrorist." Outside, another witness said, the man announced that he had used the meat saw to cut off his hand "for Allah."..more

Tick Tick Tick Tick

2006-07-24T23:32:00.000+06:00

Tik Tik Tik Tik

I declared it 80s Bollywood week last week roughly. But what I meant was it's "Any Decade I feel like for however long I feel like-Bollywood video week"

Check out Raj Kumar's utterly fabulous 70s number where he asks you to "Pik the thymmmeee..tick tick tick tick" Find out why Bangalore came to a virtual standstill when he died.

Everyone Else Had Had More Sex Than Me

2006-07-24T20:39:00.000+06:00

Everyone Else Has Had More Sex Than Me

For full flash video, click here

Dwindling Time

2006-07-22T02:17:00.000+06:00

Time is dribbling away like tap water after you turn off the pipes, and a little bit streams out defiantly anyway. It is possible that I ponder the passage of time too much.

Walking to the metro in the sweltering heat, I had a running montage of DC playing in my mind. My first days here--the sheer disorientation and loneliness of being in a new city all by myself, my quest in those days to carve out my niche, my place in this world. I feel more acutely than ever, that I am ripping out the roots growing beneath my feet, moving it across oceans and continents to re-plant, renew. Exhilarating and saddening all balled up in one.

I was walking through Chinatown this afternoon, and as usual it was the craziest part of the city. The large, flashing news-screens defeaning DC citizens with its daily updates outside the MCI center. Gold and The Dollar have both sunk, a woman's husky voice purred into the steamy, stifling afternoon.

The Falun Gong seemed to be back, and there was a wonderful street marching band of some kind playing. I hopped, skipped and tapped my feet and lingered longer to listen to the rhythmic, angry pounding. I will miss this. Discovering musicians in the metro who force you to turn off your i-pod or risk bursting your ear drums.

Israel-Lebanon Crisis: Part II

2006-07-19T22:51:00.000+06:00

I blogged about this two days ago here.

More shit has hit the fan since then. More people on both sides have died. Some 230 Lebanese have died--most of them civilians, compared to about 24 Israelies (half of whom were civilians).

Moorish Girl has an excellent list of links worth checking out. It's especially useful if you are sick of listening to the CNN/Fox/MSNBC machine.

I want to bring attention to two links in particular--one disturbing, the other not.

One of them shows Israeli children signing off on shells presumably headed off for Lebanon. There's an explanation given for these pictures here. Was the western media as forgiving when they splattered footage of Palestinians rejoicing shortly after 9/11 all over the evening news?

If you are against this war, there's an online petition you can sign. Click here for Save the Lebanese Civilians.

Update 1: More links from Moorish Girl

I am a creation authorian

2006-07-19T21:50:00.000+06:00

If you've ever wondered why Calvin and Hobbes is the best comic strip ever....well if you've ever wondered that you are a fool.

Peace in the Middle-east

2006-07-18T07:28:00.000+06:00

Right at the heels of the train bombing in Mumbai, (which has already faded from our collective memories—if it left an impression at all—poor, brown people dying isn’t much news) we are seared again by the air strikes in Lebanon this past week. For the first time in months, the chaos in Iraq has been pushed aside. Restrain and reason have once again become radical liberal mythologies in our world.

Last time I checked it was still frowned upon to plow missiles into another sovereign nation. Have international laws changed since the turn of the millennium? I realize these laws mean nothing, never has and it’s foolish to even bring it up. I bring it up here for posterity.

This is the sixth day of Israeli attacks on Lebanon, despite continuous pleas from the UN—not to mention the Lebanese people—to cease fire. The newswire has been flooded with stories of the accelerating violence I won’t bother recapping. There’s plenty of lopsided news reporting to go around. I’ve been following Moorish Girl’s advice, and trying to stay away from my RSS feed.

The nipping, angry provocation by Hezbollah was so clearly an invitation for Ehud Olmert to participate in political grandstand posturing that Olmert readily accepted.

"Nothing will deter us, whatever far-reaching ramifications regarding our relations on the northern border and in the region there may be. We have no intention to give in to these threats. We know that many tests yet await us. Our enemies are trying to disrupt life in Israel -- they will fail. The public is strong and united in this struggle."…more.

Brash irresponsibility conveniently couched in misplaced nationalism and fervent ideology. Sound familiar? I wonder about what “public” he is talking about. Did he poll the Israeli people, and ask them if it was okay to sabotage any hope of peace for their country and neighbors? Surely the public discussion around whether or not to invade Lebanon over two abducted soldiers was more nuanced than this “the public is strong and united” bullshit.

Especially chilling and eerie are phrases like “whatever far-reaching ramifications there may be”. As if all that mattered was that a few Lebanese die. It is a sorry day when it is difficult to tell apart terrorist rhetoric from government justifications. What is supposed to happen next? The Hezbollah and Hamas will now shrivel up and die? Does anyone believe this? Is this rhetoric really that different than anything Hezbollah or Hamas vomits out?

We could argue till we are red-faced and screeching that Hezbollah and Hamas are state-sponsored terrorist groups, and hence these states deserve some state-sponsored terrorism of their own. But that doesn’t change certain other inconvenient truths. Lebanon's control over Hezbollah is highly questionable at best. The missile strikes of the past few days have succeeded in doing nothing but kill some 150 people—all of them civilians. In fact, the one thing they have succeeded in doing is amassing antagonism for Israel and helping Hezbollah and Hamas grow bigger and more relevant to the Palestinian and Lebanese people.

A Side-note: hateful, racist bullshit will be deleted from my comments section. That’s a standing law, but I thought I’d evoke it again here.

2006-07-17T09:37:00.000+06:00

Asha Bhosle - Piya Tu Ab To Aaja Helen Caravan 1972

The heat has cooked my brain. It's a good day to do a video post. I know I declared this 80s Bollywood video week, but no favorite bollywood music compilation can be complete without the delectable Helen.

Here's the utterly fabulous, Monicaaaaaa from 1972 Caravan.

80s Bollywood Week Continues!

2006-07-15T02:49:00.000+06:00

Papa kehte hain Bada naam from Qyamat se Qyamat tak

Remember back when Aamir Khan didn't feel the need to make clumsy nationalist statements everytime he appeared on screen? Remember him bright-eyed, and fresh-faced jumping up and down because school's out?

Who lived through the 80s in Bombay and didn't swoon when Aamir Khan told you what Papa Kehte Hain? Who doesn't remember him happily telling us he has no purpose, no particular goal in life--except maybe to fall in love?

*sigh* A beloved classic.

Rang Barse!

2006-07-13T09:08:00.000+06:00

Rang Barse - Silsila (with English subtitles)

Nostaglic for Bombay. In honor of the one of the coolest cities..like..ever, I'm gonna do an 80s Bollywood Video Madness Week!

Check out vintage Ambitabh--the Man, the Legend. Speaking of which, this particular video is also dedicated to mah' DC Desi Posse:)**cyber crowds go wild**

Thanks for a lovely time this weekend:)

All I feel is nauseous...

2006-07-12T05:46:00.000+06:00

This came through this morning through my email, but I barely read it--too distracted. Now that I am home, and reading through the newswire/blog updates, all I feel is sick to my stomach. There is nothing to say. I am horrified.

The death count has risen to 163 the injured figure keeps shifting insidiously.

Update: 190 dead

Blogs worth noting that provide constant real time updates:
Mumbai Help
Ultrabrown
Pajamas Media
India Uncut

Honey for the Bears by Anthony Burgess: Book Review

2006-07-11T04:45:00.000+06:00

This has little to do with Anthony Burgess, or my thoughts on his book, Honey for the Bears, but…I found the following note scribbled in slanty, skinny boy-handwriting on the front cover of the book.

“Prof. Brooks-I have enjoyed your class immensely and I have developed a much greater appreciation for Russian history and literature. I wish you all the best and a speedy recovery from your surgery. Sincerely—Ishai (dated)”

I left out the last name and date to protect the innocent. There's something a touch sad about giving away a gift--especially a book. Even if it seems to be from some ass-kissing kid. Prof. Brooks couldn’t have much cared for the book or he wouldn’t have sold it to some used bookstore in Brooklyn, NY. Or maybe he was moving (perhaps due to surgical complications?) and he only wanted to take heavy, text-book types with him, leaving behind skinny, not-what-Burgess-is-known-for-anyway fiction that doesn’t behave like Russian literature (which is uniformly depressing, gloomy and cold, right?:).

This is a funny book. More than once, I found myself chuckling out loud, and re-reading sentences put together quirkily with an odd flamboyance. High-brow literature written for the Three Stooges. Briefly, the book is about an Englishman, Paul Hussey, who is voyaging to Russia with his American wife, to engage in some nefarious capitalist activities. They are selling synthetic, gaudily colored dresses to fashion-whores in Russia. Drillion dresses, they are called. They have many adventures, or Paul Hussey does (his wife is sick and weak in a hospital throughout much of the book before she goes off and has some adventures of her own).

Paul Hussey is an endearing character. Even when he attempts an "erotic assault" on the Russian maidenhood. Whenever he gets caught breaking the law, lying or cheating, he is indignant and outraged like some wronged customer at a fancy store. Never does he feel afraid, ashamed or guilty. It works well, and has a slap-stick comedic feel to it.

But despite all this, I was never really engrossed by the book. A classic “it’s not you, it’s me” problem. Well-written, fresh, interesting, funny and indeed "fizzing with energy" as the book jacket reviewer proclaims giddily—I should have loved it. But didn’t.

I was almost bored by large parts of it. Especially when he is describing all the Russian architecture and boisterous, drunken oddities of the Russian people. But he never rambles on about it--not really. And it is clear that he has a soft spot for the Russian people so his jabs feel familial somehow, instead of cranky and dismissive.

Regardless something about the chemistry of my brain when I was reading it or maybe the cosmic address of the moon in the sky---something stopped me from devouring this book. It's slightly unnerving to have an indefensible opinion, which is why I went out and got A Clockwork Orange this weekend. Await firm opinions on Burgess.

statz rappers

2006-07-05T08:09:00.000+06:00


Say "Binomial Distribution!!!" crowds shout, "binomial distribution!!" There's hip hop simmering underneath those differentials, null hypothesizing and the all-mighty p-value with its insecure little confidence intervals. Of course there is. Don't make me standardize your deviance. Check out the video or I'll go gaussian on yo' arse.

Uncomfortable "Cultural" Moments

2006-07-04T10:08:00.000+06:00

Man: You are from India?
Me: Yes, yes I am.
Woman: Have you ever seen that movie, Monsoon Wedding?
Me: Yes, many times.
Man: It's sort of like Bend it like Beckham, right?
Me: No, it's nothing like Bend It like Beckham, but they both do have brown people.
Man: **nervous, pink-faced chuckling**
-----------------------------------
Woman: Do you have like chai tea?
Me: umm..we have tea?
Woman: Yeah, but I'm looking for chai tea...
Me: Well, chai is really tea in Hindi. So what I am hearing is "do you have tea tea?"
Woman: yeah, there's a chai brand here though...
Me: Yeah, that's stupid.
Woman: oh...
----------------------------------
Woman: So...you're from India?
Me: Yes, yes I am.
Woman: Where in India?
Me: I'm from the south, but I grew up in Bombay.
Woman: Isn't it Moombye?
Me: Yes, but I don't call it that.
Woman: Oh really? (inquisitive eye-brow raising I choose to ignore.) Have you seen the Taj Mahal?
Me: No, actually I never have.
Woman: Oh why not? I would think it would be easy for you.
Me: Yes, I guess you would. I wasn't a tourist, I just lived there.
Woman: **awkward laughing**
---------------------------------
Man: You should do something about those pavement-dwellers in Moombye. They have a rough life. I saw it on PBS. Pavement-dwellers.
Me: **laughing, and trying hard not to**
---------------------------------

Colors

2006-07-02T01:14:00.000+06:00

Nothing green.
Just a fizzing dark blue that shimmers
Rusty velvet
Stained corn-rows, red tinted

List of Things I Fear/ sort-a Fear/ am bothered by...

2006-07-01T07:40:00.000+06:00

When I was little I was afraid of clowns, santa claus and stepping on feces. I was also afraid of this bitter, wrinkly, old woman who lived in our neighborhood and who believed in rouging her cheeks daily with bright red blush that made her look permanently angry. She would make me and my brother walk on her back, and I worried I would fall on her and crush her to death. She was little, brittle and had skin so loose it was a treacherously slippery walk each time.

Times have changed, I have a new list now.

Riding Old, Clunky Elevators Alone: If I must ride these cranky, smelly and glorified box-on-a-string, I would rather ride along with another soul. I reason--if it does get stuck, we can put our heads together and plot our way to freedom.
People who Display Excessive Saliva whilst Talking: **shudder**I find this nothing short of vomitous. Those who know me, also know I am deadly serious. Swallow before conversing with me--preferably in-audibly because that's gross too.
Barking Dogs that are Behind Me: I worry my butt will be chomped on any second as I've seen in endless movie flicks. Why is the animal still barking? I usually flee with my ass tucked in.
That One Guy who Stares Too Long on the Metro: What's with him? Quit it. Gaze elsewhere. You are creeping me out.
Unknown Sleeping Surfaces: Thanks to my cousin, I am convinced I will develop pimples the minute my head hits a strange pillow for a good night's sleep.

Well...I am afraid of heights too, but that's boring. Who cares if I cannot climb ladders without the wobbly legs? Also afraid of death, cancer, violence and of course, large, wild animals lunging at me and clawing me to death. And also David Blain. But who isn't?

Purging Cliches

2006-06-30T08:11:00.000+06:00

I've been plagued with the tendency--nay, a gripping need--lately to litter everything I write with clichés. From emails to blog posts to formal writing--there in the middle of my paragraph like some pimple--will be a "the devil is in the detail" or a "don't throw out the baby with the baby water". It has been a constant, uphill battle to wrench my typing fingers free of the seductive pull in my keyboard of "too many chefs in the kitchen."

For one New-York second, a part of me is deluded into thinking that I must have made it up myself. How witty. How cool to author a budding cliché! But alas, burdensome reality. It is clear that I am merely un-original. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

Last night, out of nowhere, "it happened in the 11th hour" came out of me.

Then I said, "Or is it the 13th hour? Or is that the witching hour?...well, it happened at the last second." I then scratched my head Homer-esque, and scrunched up my face like an accordion.

I was informed, "There is no 13th hour." Like, seriously mortifying. I muttered something about cutting off the nose, to spite the face. It couldn't be helped, I was a woman possessed.

Haven't I learned by now that one must avoid these treacherous gems that are oh so glitteringly exact and clever? Has it not been drummed into my head, that they should be used sparingly, carefully--their appearance a mere blip on that radar screen?

As with all of life's conundrums, I turn to a random, google search result for answers.

Uh-huh.

Just another rainy monday

2006-06-27T05:54:00.000+06:00

Today was classically yucky.

Woke up late to the relentless pounding of construction outside my bedroom window--I pleaded silently for it to stop before realizing it was pointless anyway, it was time to get up. *Groan*

Still groggy from a strange dream about escaping a dust-storm on a bus, my monday loomed at me high above the start of the week. Grabbing my uselessly tiny umbrella that has an ever-growing hole that drips water on my neck, I splashed through last nights' rain puddles, and watched cursing as my bus sped away. The driver carefully looked away from my frantic waving.

Had tepid bean-broccoli soup for lunch, endured tiresome phone calls, stayed at work too long, bad hair day (my hair frizzes up like a watered chia pet), no dinner cooked, no laundry done.

But then somehow, unexpectedly, I had a lovely walk home.

After being inside the chilly AC weather of my office all day, the humidity felt rich and warm like an overly eager puppy slobbering all over me. On every sidewalk, I hopped on each concrete pond I found, and let the spring coolness of the rain seep into my slippers, cushioning my every step with a loud burpy squirt. My toes wriggled luxuriantly.

Cozy in my room, after my dinner, I am grateful for the rain I hear outside, the thunder trying hard to split the world wide open like a coconut.

Rabbit is Rich by John Updike: Book Review

2006-06-25T06:30:00.000+06:00

Nobody describes humanity quite like John Updike. Like a scab picked clean--satisfying, and flinchingly thorough.

Consider the following passage:

"A little touch of the hooker about her looks. The way her soft body wants to spill from these small clothes, the faded denim shorts and purple Paisley halter. The shining faintly freckled flesh of her shoulders and top arms and the busy wanton abundance of her browny-red many-colored hair, carelessly bundled...She has blue eyes in deep sockets and the silence of a girl from the country used to letting men talk while she holds a sweet-and-sour secret in her mouth, sucking it. An incongruous disco touch in her shoes, with their high cork heels and ankle straps. Pink toes, painted nails..He feels she wants to hide from him, but is too big and white, too suddenly womanly, too nearly naked. Her shoes accent the length of her legs; she is taller than average, and not quite fat, though tending towards chunky, especially around the chest. Her upper lip closes over the lower with a puffy bruised look. She is bruisable..."

Rabbit Angstrom, the protagonist of the novel, is describing a woman he fetishistic-ally believes might be his daughter. Greedily incestuous, the passage sets the tone for all of Rabbit's female encounters--lecherous and prurient. Not surprisingly, the often-described sex in the novel is insistent, claustrophobic and pornographic. There's a reoccurring, and strange obsession with female toes. What to make of all this?

On the one hand, Updike is a glorious writer. He describes every physicality to such a minute detail that you are left with searing images branded to your brain...which is unfortunately gross. How do you get past the stunningly vivid descriptions of oral sex, sexual urination, and every time Rabbit comes across a beautiful woman the reader’s gag reflex is triggered. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a little bit...but it's still *eeww*

Set in the late 1970s, the book tells the story of Rabbit Angstrom, a successful car salesman, who is…well…rich. We meet his needy wife, and a sullen, vapid son, his country club friends, and the economic swirl of his father-in-law's car lot that he has inherited. The characters in Rabbit is Rich resemble John Updike’s Couples in more ways than one—the careless, seemingly banal marital affairs that they have, the greedy selfishness, and half-loathing vision of the upper, white class American social milieu. But unlike Couples, Rabbit is Rich is not pointless and bored with itself. Instead Updike fleshes out key relationships with finesse and style.

There is the ambiguity, shot with loathing between Rabbit and his son which includes Rabbit’s slimy, yet oddly endearing attempts at redemption. When Rabbit clumsily offers his son an “out” from an ill-advised marriage to a pregnant girlfriend, it is clear that Rabbit's predilection to run from his problems are thoughtlessly being passed on to his son.

There’s a whole “apple doesn’t fall far from the tree” message that Updike manages to add interesting dimensions to and eek out beyond the cliché. There is also the strange apathy that he has for his dead daughter coupled with an unhealthy fascination with another daughter that he might or might not have.

I didn't realize Rabbit is Rich was the third installment in a series. So I spent much of the book thinking Updike was being uncharacteristically coy with Rabbit's lurid past. We get hints and pieces of his past, which the reader can comfortably piece together without deterring from present story. Once you get past long passages on Rabbit's rambling thoughts, and a needlessly informative sections on cars, this is a pretty good book to bury yourself into for a couple of hours.

Somebody's Got to Look Out for the Blind

2006-06-21T07:30:00.000+06:00

Ah the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA)…In it’s own meddling, vacuous way, it has once again mindlessly and irrationally flexed its stupid stupid bureacratic muscle. When Michael Moore wanted to hail

...The Road to Guantanomo "a film every American should see.". That quote was slated to run in newspaper ads for the movie, which opens Friday. But the Motion Picture Association of America told distributors they can't use that line: Since the film's rated R, not "every" American can see it...more

The MPAA might as well add "..so there!" after all of its slimy little indictments. Hateful little children that they are. Do check it out and have a guffaw.

But then again, if they hadn't done this, I would never have found out about what looks to be a fascinating movie that I have heard little about. Check out the preview for "The Road to Guantanomo" here. Watch for Rumsfield's assurance that Guantanamo is humane and consistent with the Geneva Convention "for the most part."

Preview THE ROAD TO GUANTANAMO at www.videodetective.com

Overheard at Work

2006-06-20T03:24:00.000+06:00

Me: I need some change. I need Pop.
Shey: umm..what?
Me: Pop. I am really thirsty.
Shey: uhh..okay, whatever that is.

You know what the say...you can take the girl outta the midwest, but not the midwest outta the girl.

Chup Chup Ke: Lessons Learned

2006-06-19T09:01:00.000+06:00

Chup Chup Ke Pointers:

1. Pretending to be mute/deaf is an excellent way to get out of debt and break up with clingy, commitment-crazed girlfriends.

2. For entertainment, the upper-class employs well-oiled, muscular men who wrestle each other in the living room.

3. People can be mortaged. Especially if they are deaf/mute and don't have rights and stuff.

4. Enraged, psychotic screaming plus weeping is an excellent form of communication.

5. Pretending to be deaf/mute has consequences? Pish Posh.

6. Mute folks are practically non-exsistent in India. This is why they are greeted with gasps and sobs. Especially if they are pretty.

The Missing List: One

2006-06-17T08:17:00.000+06:00

-Seasons. Despite the fact that I am looking forward to escaping winter this year, there’s a part of me that is wistful of snow already. The cleansing sheet of the year’s first snowfall that reminds me that it isn’t simply clocks that keep time--the earth has her own tally. Time means something larger than the minutes and seconds we assign to it.

An invention whose time has come...

2006-06-15T10:13:00.000+06:00

A device that will allow me to read books while in the bathtub. Somebody invent this.

You don’t even have to give me credit. (Err…wait…unless you make money out of it, then I retract that sentence. I fully expect a personal pile of cold cash.) Currently, I don’t have the money, the knowledge, or the drive to go about doing it myself. I have drawn up rough prototypes of what this might look like. I am open to alternative plans, I suppose.

Possible Tagline: All the comforts of dry ground, without the dry ground.

The idea being that the bather must be able to read a novel in full comfort, without risking wetting the pages in any way. Turning of the pages should be accomplished with minimal hullabaloo.

How does this benefit humankind?

It will make reading sexy.
Children will be more likely to read and do their homework.
People will no longer skip a bath for getting work done
Two birds. One stone.

Literate children, increased sexiness and people with higher hygiene standards. It’s practically a recipe for ensuring further propagation of the human race. What more can you ask for?

I want to live in a world where...

2006-06-14T09:34:00.000+06:00

...everyone dances like this

Mr. Bennet, here's your ass

2006-06-13T09:32:00.000+06:00

I watch the Daily Show almost err...daily. Pretty much. So it's inevitable that there will be moments when I am tired of the whole daily-show shtick. (like their whole take on immigration reform...whatever.) I only really like the first ten minutes or so anyway.

But every now and again, you get to watch something so...delightful. Like this heart-warming moment when a dickwad like Bennett gets his ass handed to him, leaving him blubbering like a cauldron of fool.

Check out this lovely little debate on gay marriages, where Stewart calmly and effortlessly picks apart all of Bennett's weak, party-line, thoughtless nonsensical gargoyle-speak. There is nothing quite as sexy as intelligence hitting it off with funny.

If Stewart ever has on Ann Coulter (the anti-goddess of ugliness, hate and yuckiness), I will *shriek* madly and possibly die because my head exploded.

Post-Outreach Moon Post

2006-06-11T15:32:00.000+06:00

Is the moon tired? she looks so pale
Within her misty veil
She scales the sky from east to west,
And takes no rest.

Before the coming of the night
The moon shows papery white;
Before the dawning of the day
She fades away.

by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

It was a full moon tonight.

My eyes burn slightly from being up so late. It was a beautiful night. Chilly for those who had to stay out all night in it, but perfect for ones nestled inside homes, clubs, restaurants and cars and buses.

The moon reminded me that right now would be my last night at outreach. The last time I will crane my neck to see the pre-dawn moon that dips back into the belly of the sky after being a hard knob of light all night. How it changes--coyly, like a languid eyelid winking at me on my drive back home.

The last time I will witness life laughing, crying outside seedy greyhound parking garages, budget motels and oppressive 7/11 donut shacks at 4:00 in the morning with a fat moon watching. Who will I remember from tonight? Who will fade leaving behind a shadow to haunt me years from now, maybe when I am drinking tea and I'm forty?

I will remember three people from tonight. I will write them down on my blog, etching them a nook inside my brain. The woman who told us how desperately she wanted to get clean, about her mother who died two years ago, the cops, her children. She wore all black, and she was very high. I gave her some water to drink in a cup, which she held precariously close to the window, and as I was listening to her, I worried that she will spill the water all over my lap. She cried. At first, I had trouble understanding her because she had a way of whipping her head around and letting the wind snatch all her words away. She didn't spill anything on me.

There was a 62-yr-old man pushing a wheelchair, muttering angrily to himself. Turned out he was a Vietnam veteran who had fought in Cambodia. He showed me his scars--three darkened patches that I could barely see in his dark face. He claimed they were bullet wounds which I only half-believed. Somebody had stabbed his thigh with a needle, and robbed him earlier in the night. I could see the blood soak through his khakis. He cried angrily, bitterly flinging his tears off his eyes.

A green-eyed black man. His eyes were really a light gray, rimmed in a strange green. He made us laugh and told us we were blessed. He asked to exchange some change he had for dollar bills, and we told him we had no money in the van. Sorry. He grinned happily and said, "Don't be sorry, God never made nothin' sorry."

I ain't no Gotcha Player

2006-06-09T08:18:00.000+06:00

I became mildly obssessed with Doonesbury in high school. I would check out these big, thick comic books from the library and pour over them for hours, chuckling to myself. I love Doonesbury. Not to be found in the regular comic strip page, you have to flip over to the Style section of the Post, to read it. An oasis all on its own. And it has only gotten better over the years. Sharper, wry-ier with just the right flair of the absurd.

So the other day when I saw this, instead of the regularly-scheduled programming, I felt understandably jipped. A series of panels with names of the dead in the Iraq War. The disappointment that my daily doonesbury dose had been robbed of me inspired me to implore.

Just Say No, Garry Trudeau! I implore you! You are a pulitzer-prize winning cartoonist, for the love of goodness' sake. Why must you resort to sickishly maudlin "statements" that are manipulative and ultimately utterly meaningless. You are smarter than this!

*sigh*

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami: Book Review

2006-06-08T07:00:00.000+06:00

It’s hard to write reviews for good books without sounding like a paid-off jacket cover reviewer. Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore is one such book, that was a joy to read. I generally dislike reading translations and I don’t particularly like coming-of-age, voyage genres. But despite being both, Kafka on the Shore surpassed all my expectations and has become one of the most intriguing books I have read this year.

There's a scene somewhat early on that for me tipped the book from interesting to completely fascinating. Each subsequent scene was as gloriously strange, as unpredicatable as the fish that fall from the sky.
The scene involves cats, a dark and villianous Johnny Walker and the eating of the former by a grostequely snarky Walker. He eats their hearts to make a flute out of their souls which can be used to entrap larger, human souls. The passage is described with such clear-eyed bluntness that if it wasn't so skin-crawling, it would be really funny.

Set in Japan, the story follows two characters—a teenage boy named Kafka Tamura who is running away from home and an elderly, mentally impaired man called Nakata who is inexplicably following Kafka’s path. Kafka is running away to escape a hideous, Oedipal prophecy foreseen by his father—he will kill his own father, and sleep with his mother and sister. Eventually Kafka arrives in a small town where he befriends the local librarian who allows him to live in the library in exchange for work.

In a lot of ways, this book reminded me of Phil Robinson's 1989 movie Field of Dreams. Like the movie, Kafka on the Shore asks both his readers and the characters that populate the novel, to accept and trust the quirky mythology of Murakami’s world, without knowing any of the whys, whos and hows. And Murakami isn't too interested in making sure he answers all your questions either. Any second leeches could fall out of the sky, Colonel Sanders could tap you on your shoulders and lead you to your destiny (and a prostitute). And the woman you are in love with might be your mother...or your sister. Or not. You are compelled to keep reading if only to find out what the hell is going on.

Cleverly and with fascinating results, Murakami describes a world in which memories are tangible valuables that carry enormous powers. A body’s spirit can flit across our arbitrary notions of time, and sexuality is as potent and powerful a force as any on this earth. All of this makes this an understandably kooky book to read, while being completely endearing. After Kafka tells his librarian friend his secret fear that he might sleep with his mother, he replies,

"For a fifteen-yr-old who doesn't even shave yet, you're sure carrying a lot of baggage around."

It's as if Murakami knows what you might be thinking, and he writes it up as dialogue instead of explaining. Similarly, there's a point when the librarian asks Kafka why he chose the infamous author's name as his pseudonym. There's a discussion about Franz Kafka's story, The Penal Colony, and an explanation given for his name. This happens often, where characters will somewhat abruptly have a seemingly tangential discussion about art, history, music and particularly Greek mythology. It adds an oddly informative, even worldly, feel to the book that is unusual and engrossing. It also exemplifies how nicely Murakami draws parallels and connections between wildly disjointed ideas and philosophies and creates his own reality and his own rules. Reading Murakami has that wonderful feeling that I sorely miss of stepping into a brand new world that is wholly unexpected in every way, each turn of events anticipated with delight.

Woe is the Muslim Woman

2006-06-06T08:10:00.000+06:00

A few weeks ago riding the elevator, I overheard the following conversation at work. A man and a woman were discussing his recent trip to Nigeria. After the usual it-was-beautiful-yet-humid weather-chatter, and of course the inevitable air flight mentions (by the way, a sidenote: both of these topics are invariably boring to all people the world over, and yet a travel story is never complete without them. Odd, no?). Perhaps predictably, the conversation detoured to the sad women in Nigeria. It seems no Western traveler's story is complete without one of these either.

"All covered up," he said, voice low and sad. "I couldn't take it. The veils are just...so..backwards. I just don't understand how it still goes on. "

Disgusted, I stepped off the elevator snippily without the obligatory head nod that one usually terminates longish elevator rides with fellow co-workers. Unfortunately, nobody noticed or cared. But I walked off with that buzzing irritation you get when you haven't said what you wanted to say because well...you weren't part of the conversation.

"That's right, buddy, you don't understand!," I sang in my head righteously.

A few days later when I retold this story to someone, they gave me that blank stare I get when I mention that I love Firefly. "umm..what was the problem again? Isn't that kinda sad?"

The whole incident unpleasantly reminded me of one of my first classes in graduate school, when my self-proclaimed feminist professor peered at us and asked quite seriously, "Why do you suppose gender inequality still exists in developing countries, while we have achieved so much over here?"

These are the moments that make it especially delicious to read the brilliantly written piece by Laila Lalami, that appeared in The Nation where she writes about what she refers to as "the burden of pity". Do read it. It's filled with the kind of smart and sharp writing that says exactly what I am trying to say...only better:)

Here's an excerpt: Go here for the original.

Meanwhile, the abundant pity that Muslim women inspire in the West largely takes the form of impassioned declarations about "our plight"--reserved, it would seem, for us, as Christian and Jewish women living in similarly constricting fundamentalist settings never seem to attract the same concern. The veil, illiteracy, domestic violence, gender apartheid and genital mutilation have become so many hot-button issues that symbolize our status as second-class citizens in our societies. These expressions of compassion are often met with cynical responses in the Muslim world, which further enrages the missionaries of women's liberation. Why, they wonder, do Muslim women not seek out the West's help in freeing themselves from their societies' retrograde thinking? The poor things, they are so oppressed they do not even know they are oppressed...more

Shabke Jaage Hue

2006-06-05T00:15:00.000+06:00

My ipod has been wearing out the signature song from Tamanna--Alka Yagnik's Shabhke Jaage Hue--repeated a few dozen times each day. (Thanks Rani, for sending it to me! :)

Finding it again, is like re-discovering mangoes every summer, after winter is finished with us for the year. I love everything about this song, I have for years. But I am especially in love with the lyrics.

Yagnik gets it so right. The cruelty of thwarted, hopeless love in the face of quiet desperation that waits patiently, only to be left behind and forgotten.

The song begins with the night and ends at dawn. With lyrics like "even the stars have fallen asleep", beautifully capturing the fading stars of a sleepless night as dawn creeps closer. Each subsequent verse closes the distance between hope and hopelessness. For example, in the second passage, the singer decides that if the lights go out, then it must mean that her love has arrived. And when morning comes, she cries out to the dawn, "why have you come alone?"

I am a poor translator, so these English bylines below are a watered down version of the original Hindi. If anyone has a better translation, let me know. I only have here a selected few of the verses.

Saas ki tarahe se aap aathe rahe jaathe rahe
shabke jaage hue taroan ko bhi neend aane lage
Aap ki aane ki ek aas bhi ab jaaane lage

(You come and go through the passages of my breath
Awake, even the stars are falling asleep
The hope of Your coming is also leaving)

And...

Patiya kadti tho hum sumje gay ki aap e gaye

(I will assume you have come, if the lights go out)

Aye subha, tu bhi jo aayi tho akeli aayi
Meri mehaboob, mere josh udane vaale
meri masjood, meri rooh pe chaanevaale

Aa bhi jaa thaake meri sajdhon ka armaan nikle
Aa bhi ja thaake tere kadmoa pe meri jaan nikle

(Ay morning, even you when you came, it was alone
My love, the one that makes me lose my senses
My love, the one who desires me

Come already, so that desires can be spent
Come already, so that my life can be laid at your feet)

A woman fell on me today

2006-06-03T07:22:00.000+06:00

There I was, minding my own business, seated serenely on one of those metro seats reserved for old people. When the train lurched like a bellydancer, and the Asian woman in front of me fell right on my lap. She crushed the book I was reading. She made a small "Oh" sound. I had time to think 4 thoughts.

I'm glad she doesn't smell.

I'm glad she is skinny
Her elbow is bony..and sharp

Did she have to be quite so clammy?

After the initial perfunctory apology, she refused to look at me. A small circle of passengers around her (including me) asked her if she was okay with genuine concern. As if she had fallen on shards of glass, instead of myself.

Also has anyone else seen the opera singers at the friendship heights metro lately? It used to be this teenage, black kid in braids with a lifting, impressive soprano coming out of him. A cute kid, he grins shyly at me every time. But then today, I saw the same sound coming out of this deathly pale, white teenager dressed all in goth black. There's a tape player somewhere, right? It's a scam? Dozens of dollars worth?

What I hate about Books

2006-06-02T07:53:00.000+06:00

I found this idea through Roswitha's Blog. Here's my chance to indulge in some griping of my own about books, and some things that books do that I wish it would stop doing.

Big Hardcover Books: I really don't like books that I cannot hold open with one hand. I like the freedom of one free hand. And besides lugging around these large hardcovers is a pain. When I was reading Rushdie's Shalimar the Clown, I had to carry it around in my backpack, instead of my regular one sling bag. This can get annoying-some. Also, hardcopies are expensive! I bought Shalimar with a gift certificate and I still had to cough up 10 bucks to cover the rest. I have this habit of giving away my books, especially ones I disliked or selling them to the nearest used bookstore. Hardcopies that you have to sell your blood for discourages this habit of mine that I am fond off.

Paperback Books with tightly knitted pages: Pirsig was hard to read for many reasons, but the fact that I had to practically break the spine to open the book fully did not help matters. Also these books are impossible to prop up against your bed post for night time reading. I have to do that because I am desi and biologically programmed to sleep on my stomach. I must admit hardcopies are easy to do this with, despite their ornery weight problems.

Classics that disappoint that I think are good: I read a few of Franz Kafka's short stories some years ago. Nothing could have been more disappointing. It was so utterly dreary and oppressive that it left a proverbial dark cloud over my head. More recently, was Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. Similarly Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being left me cold and uninspired.

Classics that disappoint that I think are bad: Kerouac's On the Road. Ayn Rand's FountainHead, Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainence. Richard Wright's Native Son. I immensely disliked all these books for their pretension, irritatingly over-done allegory, sloppiness, and sheer unlike-ability.

Action-packed Books: They bore me. I cannot read with pleasure long descriptions of people getting hit by bullets, or swinging that sword, or flying that jetplane. In a similar vein, I dislike nautical-themed stories. I am convinced sailors do nothing interesting, until they stand on solid ground again

Books convinced it must hand me a moral: And do it with the subtely of an anvil. Especially if the book was a good one, and it decides to turn on me. Why?, I cry. I thoroughly enjoyed Yann Martel's Life of Pi which was partly what made it so painful to come to that end with its cutesy ending. God, I hate that.

Screechingly Dislikable Characters that I am supposed to Like: There is this recurrent character that occurs in many awful books. It's usual female. And she's supposed to be "fiery" or "passionate". Instead she is thoroughly obnoxious, rude, childish and easily offended. She needs to die.

I am done for now. Someday we will live in a world where they make nothing but loose-leafed paperbacks for free : ) So what are your bookish complaints?

Scared Straight Boys

2006-06-01T08:36:00.000+06:00

I was startled to discover an uncomfortable thought the other night. Is it possible that men, particularly boys, are neglected in our culture, in our world? Being a staunch feminist, it pains me to even consider the possibility that men might not always be lapping it up at the shores of priveledge. Just to be clear, I am not saying they aren't either. Just that...there's a fly in my world view ointment.

Hear me out. (read me out? whatever).

I was watching Mean Girls last week, a movie that against all odds, I actually enjoy. At the conclusion of all that mean girl angst, Lindsay Lohan cries out to all girls to see each other as "human beings" instead of "plastics". Yes! Sisterhood celebrated! Forget the outside, it's the inside that matters. How nice. We don't see enough of this, I thought magnanimously. Then I flipped the channel forward and I caught the tail end of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. Yes! A celebration of female relationships! Girl Power Rocks! How lovely. You just cannot get enough of women's relationships treasured. Next. I have a heavy switcher thumb, so I happened upon Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her. Tagline. A man only sees what a woman wants him to know.

When the Gods of Direct-TV seem to be beaming down a tailored message through my parents' satellite dish, you blog about it.

Except for very few noteworthy exceptions--Salinger's Cather in the Rye, and of course the much touted Brokeback Mountain--male friendships, male identity and even male sexuality are very rarely explored or even mentioned in our cultural milieu. (Well, books fare much better here, of course). And I am not talking about the hyper-masculine, frat-boy posturing of the American Pie movies and their like, or Tom Cruise's Mission Impossible franchise. Or Howard Stern's unrestrained ugliness. I am talking about movies that seem to find that joy and pleasure possible in male friendships and sexuality, without resorting to thinly-veiled misogyny.

In an interview, Dan Savage (the notorious sex advice columnist) said the following about straight men:

I feel so sorry for straight guys. Because their sex lives are a terror, and are really circumscribed by straight guys policing the behavior of other straight guys—"Hey, you're a fag"—and by gay guys policing their behavior, and straight women. Paradoxically, straight guys run the world, but sexually, they're so imprisoned and it's not just a prison of their own creation. A girl goes to college and eats a little pussy and gets over it, and nobody thinks she has to be a lesbian because she did that disgusting pussy-eating thing once or twice. A straight guy goes to college and once or twice gets drunk and goes down on another guy, and if it gets out there, nobody's ever going to think he's straight, ever. It doesn't matter how much pussy he eats after that, or how many kids he fathers by a woman, he's secretly a fag. There's a problem with straight-male sexual identity where it's just a mass of negatives. It's not defined really by anything positive. Being a straight guy is not being a fag, not being a woman, and not doing anything that fags or women do, like have feelings or sit-ups or anything.

Of course feminists have had these discussions (hell, we are the ones who started it), about the rigidity of gender identity, and more specifically the obtuseness of gender identity politics in our culture. Nobody really knows what's up with men and women, but feminism has given us plenty of reasons to distrust the status quo.

But what amazes me is that, unlike even five years ago, these discussions are being held in main-stream, non-feminist, public spaces. They are not at all restricted to women's studies courses in dusty university classrooms. That's the good news. But what is dismaying is that the seeming rise in feminist enlightenment, has not benefited men in any way. There continues to be a lack of conversation around male identity and sexuality that isn't steeped in the same, frothing manliness that has always plagued it.

Savage's point about male sexuality (and identity) being defined by negatives, and most explicity--anything that is not female--is cogent and forceful. What a sorry vision of masculinity.

One of the many things that feminism helped do, is to explore femininity (and gender), coaxing it out of its nice-ness, and gentle-hood. But there has never been a masculinism for boys and men. All men have had is stifling patriarchy on their side--it's like having a belligerent and ignorant, but rich and powerful, old goat on your side. One we all know to be void of imagination, intelligence or reason.

at the sign of the naked waiter by Amy Herrick: Book Review

2006-05-28T14:31:00.000+06:00

At the sign of the naked waiter could have been a really fun novel.

It could have sprinkled its magical-ness into the drone of the everyday; described beauty, love and your place in this world with a poignant sweetness that wrenches at your heart. It could even have asked probing questions about the fine line between madness and enchantment. But it does none of this.

Instead, it is hopelessly mediocre, and often feels abrupt, incomplete and oddly skeletal as if the author wrote parts of it in a rush. In the book’s defense, I don’t really know how to judge this novel because I think this is young adult fiction. Would the teenage me have liked this book? Actually yes, very much. It has the sort of fantastical, magical realism that I was really into as a kid. But does that make it a good, competent book? I honestly can’t say. While it does not claim to be young adult fiction anywhere (I looked), the characters overflow with superficiality and teenage-angst. Even when they grow into adulthood, they have infantile tantrums and display a stunning level of immaturity. There’s an especially inane scene when Sarah, a lawyer and her fiancé, another lawyer, are having dinner when the immigrant waitress asks them for legal advice. “All she can do is marry a citizen”. The legal research for the book was apparently done by watching Perfect Strangers.

We meet the main character, Sarah when she is a teenager, on one pretty night “watching the moon sail high above the treetops”. She is about to spot her first, naked man across the way from her window. He apparently has wings, and he flies off into the night the next time she gazes at him. Who is he? Why does he have wings? We never find out, it ceases to matter once the chapter ends and she grows up some more. She also encounters two sponge-like, round alien balls from out of space that emit odors as a form of communication. Nothing more is said of them as well. The fantastical—while they occur with regular frequency—do not ever really faze the characters involved. They are as inconsequential and as worthy of contemplation as a parking lot—never interrupting the everyday business of growing up.

When we first meet Sarah, she is an awkward, shy teenager who is just beginning to feel the first pangs of love, school, and friends. In every chapter that follows, she grows up a few more years, has had a few more boyfriends and eventually a husband, and has climbed a new rung in her professional career. Oddly, while Sarah spends much of her time brooding about her future soul-mate, we are never really sure if she is even in love with the man she ends up marrying. This is mildly interesting.

At the sign of the naked waiter strives so hard to be pretty, with air that is always “soft” or “clear” or “touched with gold” or some combination there of. Starting with the mostly nonsensical title (there is an obligatory naked waiter at the end), the whole novel has an air of such forced whimsy, that I almost feel sorry for it. Like watching someone be willfully cheerful. It has crappy sentences like this all over. “She had the odd thought that a heavy weight was lifting from her head, a crown maybe, that she had been toting around with her since she was quite a young girl, a dumb gold thing, trimmed with fruit and white veils, little cakes and silver babies.” It’s as if Herrick strung together her creative writing exercises and called it a novel. A quick, forgettable book.

Invisibility in da house!!

2006-05-27T08:37:00.000+06:00

India Uncut asked, and I answered by shamelessly stealing a friend's response:)

What would you do if you actually had a foolproof invisible cloak?

I would run around and hold up old ladies' boobs.

Four years ago I asked this question to everyone I knew, inspired then by a fabulous piece on (This American Life) called Superpowers. Back then, my question was two-fold: "Which one would you choose: the power of flight or invisibility? And furthermore, what is the first thing you would do with your chosen power." Most people chose invisibility, and wanted to see naked people unhindered. I had a whole theory about what kind of people chose one or the other. So which one are you? A flyer or an invisibler? :)

Landscapes

2006-05-25T12:50:00.000+06:00

Have you noticed this? If you have a blog idea cooking in your mind, and you don’t post it soon enough, it will go away. They are like cats, you have to pay attention to them or they sulk and brood out of your reach. I had a couple of thoughts I wanted to write about a few days ago, but they’re mostly gone now.

One. The Desmoines airport is actually breezy and pleasant, instead of drab and weary. Strange, no? After spending way too much time at O’Hare and Reagan, I have acquired an appreciation for terminals that aren’t pulsing with furious jostling travelers trying to catch their flights.

It got me thinking of a drive back from Chicago a few years ago, when it occurred to me that those endless, stunningly flat cornfields were beautiful. In contrast to India’s bursting, lush and often cacophonous landscapes, those mid-western cornfields had seemed so hopelessly ordinary, almost aggressively common. Its beauty is not one to stand up and shout hello, instead it waits timidly and patiently for you to gaze out the window on one of those long drives, and let your mind wander along those vast fields. And quite suddenly, that tree standing alone, an unexpected break on the horizon will startle you with its splendor.

I want to know NOW!!

2006-05-11T21:14:00.000+06:00

It's driving me crazy. This waiting.

It is a little itch inside my brain that I cannot reach because it is buried under layers of grey matter and skull bone. I was supposed to find out on Wednesday where in India I might end up and more importantly, what exactly I might be doing. Wednesday was yesterday. Today is another day, and my email account still refuses to display any promisingly bold subject lines. My paranoid streak has started flaring up. And a part of me envisions all funding being pulled for the project--which would be strange indeed. But this is my brain and it likes to keep me on the edge. Impatience is manically clicking the "get new mail" button every two minutes and throwing your hands in the air each time because nothing new has popped up. What is it they say about boiling water? It shouldn't be watched or something? Meh.

Update: Got my placements, yay! It was beginning to drive me a little nuts:) I will probably be either in Bangalore or New Delhi.

Reprezenttt!!! (with a Z)

2006-05-09T06:15:00.000+06:00

At a pre-dinner chat-fest last night, a friend of mine used a phrase that I find irresistible. We were talking about first dates, (and first impressions in general) and she said that these times were when you "invoke your representative"— meaning try not to share the raw truth about your soul with the person you are with. In a fit of spiraling, random thought-storm last night walking home, I got to thinking about my own representative.

The following is a performance evaluation for my representative.

She only works part-time, specifically during job interviews and committee meetings. And even then, she takes too many breaks, and I find myself blurting out, "that bald guy over there took the document, Dr. XYZ".

She does not work on call. I have to schedule her hours weeks in advance.

She doesn’t get along with the mother-organization. There are frequent disagreements about public statements that do not in fact represent the views of The Me.

A Ship Made of Paper by Scott Spencer: Book Review

2006-05-05T10:42:00.000+06:00

There's a moment fairly late in the book, when events and characters come to an unexpected, and shocking denouement—I remember this passage clearly, I was reading it on the metro, and I gasped out loud (startling the other metro riders). Such are the problems of reading characters that leap out of the pages with such intensity and power that the world around you disappears.

In a small, mostly white town of Leyden, New York, Daniel Emerson—who is himself involved in a serious relationship—is fiercely in love with another woman—a married, black woman named Iris Davenport. After a series of richly detailed, exquisitely written chapters, the two eventually have an affair whose consequences fracture both their lives. There’s nothing really special about this story when laid out in this way, but I am reluctant to say much more. So much of the joy in reading this book, is in discovering each new twist, and waiting for the inevitable which arrives in startling, unpreditable waves.

Deftly and elegantly, Spencer unpacks the racial and sexual implications of the relationship between Daniel and Iris in deliciously ambiguous ways. There’s a beautiful passage early on that describes Daniel’s torture when he imagines telling Iris that he moved back to Leyden from New York City because he has developed a fear of black people (due to being beaten up by a few). Similarly, Daniel’s girlfriend (practically wife), Kate Ellis's privilege and often brash intolerance makes for some palpably uncomfortable racially-tinted moments.

There’s also Hampton, Iris’s husband—a highly successful investment banker—a man whose racial pride and self-regard is so potent, so over-powering that little else matters when he enters the scene. Here’s a passage that describes Hampton’s reaction to a letter in which there’s an implied slight made against his wife, Iris, who has been taking years to finish up her doctoral studies.

Yet. His heart feels queer, as if it is suddenly circulating blood that is a little oily and a little cold. Hampton is vulnerable to the suggestion that Iris might not be in possession of a first-class mind. There is a vagueness to her, a lack of precision. Sometimes, he thinks this is a result of her profoundly feminine nature, yet in his line of work he meets dozens of women whose minds are scientific, logical, calculating, aggressive. Iris’s is not. Both she and Hampton have been explaining her long career in graduate school to themselves and to the world at large as somehow a result of an excess of intellectual curiosity, an unwillingness to be pigeon-holed, and the demands of motherhood, and Hampton is perfectly willing to stay within the confines of this official explanation. What he is not willing to say, except to himself…[is that..] because she is simply too confused to complete her work; that, in other words, the machinery of her mind is not quite up to the task.

In a lot of ways, Ship Made of Paper manages to do what movies like Crash only make half-baked attempts at—relate racial ambiguities without resorting to high-minded, yet cheap messaging and condescension. Instead, it offers up it's racially potent world in startlingly imaginative and sensitive ways.

Stephen Colbert is my New Personal Hero

2006-05-02T07:02:00.000+06:00

Every now and again, every once in a blue moon, television will spit out something of such exquisite beauty, that gives me such sheer, absolute joy that I am actually giddy from it. This weekend's White House Correspondent Dinner where Stephen Colbert roasted our president in his scathingly funny, face-slapping monologue to a room full of gasping, nervous-laughing, stone-silent audience is some gorgeous, utterly delicious television. Ah, and our President, our pink-faced President Bush as he tries valiently to hold up that thin, desperate little smile. Beautiful! These are the moments meant to be downloaded, shared, and cherished for generations to come! :)

Please pleeaaasssee watch this if you have not already done so. Click Here. Or Click Here, apparently it has full video plus transcript.

Or click on the video below, which should show up...

Lazy Sunday = Trip to the Eastern Market

2006-05-01T03:57:00.000+06:00

I love our eastern market. Especially when it is this beautiful outside, and all the venders seem to be in an especially generous mood. I love the snack and champagne makers who will thrust their sample cups of sugared walnuts or apple wine to taste as you walk by. I love the loud, gaudy jewelry, the vintage photographs, the handmade greeting cards for a $1, the artists' and their splashy canvases carelessly strung up with a $700 price tag. I love my favorite bookstore--Capital Hills Used Bookstore--two tiny rooms bursting at the seams with books stacked high anywhere there is a surface. No eastern market trip is complete without a visit. I even dig the corner store vender with his red-tinted beard, and belly-shaking laugh who will--without fail--ask me to marry him, thoroughly embarassing me, before knocking of a measly five bucks for love.

Today two desi venders--both exclaimed, "For you, I will give for $20, it's normally 30, but you are Indian. I see that." Gosh. When I decided that the skirt I was eyeing was too small for me, the second guy said, "Arre, beti, yay tho moti moti log bhi payinte hai." (child, even fat fat women wear this). Completely amused, I laughed and chose to ignore his obvious irritation when I walked away without buying anything.

I had fun bartering in Hindi, and I realized with a sudden thrill that I will have to learn to haggle better in Hindi over the next few months. Problem areas identified:

I don't know all the numbers very well, so I always say, "pacheese" (15), or "beese" (20). Things that cost more than that would be a problem. The minute I slip into English (will you knock off 5$?), I can feel my advantage also slipping quickly.
I am way too conditioned to pay the amount asked of me. I am without that killer instinct, that outraged, slightly manic belief that I deserve this item for half the asking price. I fold way too easily, too happily after an initial inquiry, "is there a discount?"
I have no real idea of what the actual cost of things are. Everything is expensive here, when compared to everywhere else.
I actually have trouble understanding Hindi from different dialects spoken too fast. Shameful, but true. The Pakistani vender was muttering something about shirts to me, which I had to fake "nod and smile" my way through. After spending most of my days speaking English, I have the disturbing sense of Hindi sounding clunky and wrong coming out of my mouth.

Anyway, it was a successful trip. A pretty skirt, and an equally pretty shirt was bought. Six novels have been added to my pile of books. I have a nice shopper's high.

Back in the day...

2006-04-28T09:35:00.000+06:00

I have become overwhelmed lately with the past. People and memories from years ago, long forgotten, feel nearer in time in ways they never have before. It's gut-wrenching. And beautiful.

So in an admittedly lame attempt at capturing these random bursts of nostalgia that I have been subjected to these past few weeks, I dug up this essay that I wrote in college years ago. I was the editor of an Indian literary magazine, and we were desperately scrounging for folks to submit their writing. So I wrote this silly little piece. The thing that strikes me immediately, is how utterly insincere it is while simultaneously being an important truth about my personal sense of identity and belonging. The moment I acknowledge that I am an American at least as much as I am Indian.

There was an ongoing war going on at the time between first generation Indians and Indians who had grown up in America. Quite conveniently (and superficially) the two groups were also divided into graduate students and undergrads. Someday I will blog about the perils and drama of the Indian community in a little midwestern college town. Or not. Whichever comes first.

The buried subtext of the essay below is that I think the Indian Americans at our school were pretty much totally bratty, and that these differences that they saw among themselves and the newly-arrived immigrants were mostly thinly veiled expressions of self-loathing. But I don't say that. Instead, this pretentious, slightly cringe-inducing piece is what I wrote (a piece that I have an odd fondness for nonetheless, hence the post).

American-Desi-From-A-Boat

If you are a desi, chances are you know who F.O.B.'s and A.B.C.D's are. Fresh Off the Boat. American Born Confused Desis. Perhaps the oddest acronyms known since it has so little to do with Indians or Americans. Certainly Indians in India would be largely puzzled by identities so carelessly linked to transportation. It is a strictly Indian-American term, referring to the gap between first and second generation Indian-Americans. Years ago (back when I was unaware of any such acronyms), when people asked I would say, "I grew up in India. I am Indian" Smiling proudly, rolling my rr's, extending my ee's. Iiiiinddiiaa. My India. Disclaiming America in every way. I did not grow up in the suburbs of Iowa. I grew up in Bombay-a name I belonged to, a name that had made space for me, understood my Indian-ness without needing an explanation. Bombay-a word with far more exotic possibilities than I.o.w.a.

It was only later on a trip to India that I discovered parts of me distinctly American, like extensions I didn't know I had. I imagine a fashion crisis with my body in a kurta and jeans underneath. In America, as Indians we are all trying to reconcile our Indian traditions with clashing American values. We are Indians in America, trying to lay down our Americanisms on top of Indian-brown skins. Perhaps that's why it is so difficult to understand the "F.O.B's" and "A.B.C.D's"-terms that clearly separate us, divide us. One would think such meaningless designations would be just that-nonsense. But as we know, they become a superficial, but strong measure of Indian-ness in a world that is not Indian.

You look around and you see white swamis with clear blue eyes in the Ped Mall, asking you about the Bhagvad Gita. And the Vortex is selling "Shiva Loves You" T-shirts for $25 and the Peaceful Fool has cut up my mother's sarees into dipping, hugging dresses that my mom would crack my head open for wearing. An uneasy inclusion that feels even more alien. These days when people ask me, I say, "I came here when I was eleven." And I nod when I hear, "Oh, so you are American."-a word that feels like an ill-fitting shirt. (Does it show?) "You have an accent," some note, puzzled. And I am grateful that I haven't entirely dissolved in some proverbial melting pot. I am an American with strong and proud Indian roots. Not an A.B.C.D. with an accent.

Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie: Book Review

2006-04-26T08:58:00.000+06:00

I savored the moment when I would read Shalimar the Clown, anticipated it as one might a lazy Sunday afternoon. I remember when I first read Satanic Verses in the same way one remembers falling in love for the first time--fondly, with real affection. Midnight’s Children, Last Moor’s Sigh, his short stories in East/West. These books are the reason I get excited when I hear that Salman Rushdie appeared on Seinfeld or Bridget Jones’ Diary or that he gave an interview at the restaurant down the street from my work. A writer whose wonderfully chaotic genius plays out in each page he writes with all the might of a true magician.

Which is all the more reason why it was so dismaying to find rampant mediocrity in his latest book, Shalimar the Clown. With the same dizzying rhetoric that has become his trademark, Rushdie lays out a multi-generational, multi-continental, multi-historical story of one man, his wife, her lover and all the people that populate their world. The book opens in Los Angeles, with the violent, and bloody death of the brilliant, and charming Max Ophlus—former US ambassador to India. His death spins out into the story of Boonyi Kaul and her husband, Shalimar, the clown—characters from two adjoining villages in Kashmir that enjoyed communal harmony, beauty and love before the terrible realities of personal and national infidelities. It’s a story of cruel betrayals, love, war, and death.

It's a story that despite all of its decorations, is uncomfortably simple. Two young people deeply in love are ripped apart by a beautiful outsider who whisks away the simple village girl for a fling that destroys all their lives. The husband becomes rabidly, murderously vengeful. A daughter named India/Kashmiri is born who grows up predictably troubled. Woven into the background, is the larger histories of WW II, the Indo-Pakistan war, and the LA riots.

Surprisingly clumsy at times, with overly-drawn out thought bubbles from characters whose maudlin self-importance was embarrassing. Take this passage for instance:

“The words right and wrong began to crumble, to lose meaning, and it was as if Max were being murdered all over again, assassinated by the voices who were praising him, as if the Max she knew were being unmade…” ...and so on.

There was a particularly hollow scene where Rushdie slyly alludes to a “writer against God, who spoke French and had sold his soul to the West”. He gets killed off by Islamic terrorists.

Aside from half-baked philosophsi-fizing, Rushdie draws problematic conclusions about the dangers of breaking free of one’s role and place in life. The characters in his novel suffer horribly for having ambitions, and dreaming big. Love is possessive and jealous and will always either stifle or betray you—it is an inescapable curse.

But despite all of its disappointing shortcomings, Rushdie still delivers an engaging story that lays out tempting morsels, after every disenchanting moment. At its best, Shalimar the clown soars high on its author's uncanny ability to tell a story. At its worst, the history that Rushdie uses to clog up his passages, feel like fillers--background noise to distract from the emptiness of his characters. It is like catching the magician slip a rabbit in his hat--the trick still works, but you now know the secret and it's not magic anymore.

Presidential Talkies #4

2006-04-22T23:26:00.000+06:00

It has been a while since my last presidential entry and the man has been talking a lot. Chuckle away...

"...I didn't pick my Vice President for this hairdo..."
-- Oct. 6th, '04 (Pennsylvania)

"We will not have an all-volunteer army. And yet, this week--we will have an all-volunteer army"
-- Oct. 16th, '04 (Florida)

"One of the concerns The Majesty and I discussed is that Hezbollah may try to derail the peace process." -- Mar. 15th, '05 (press during a visit by the King Abdullah of Jordan)

"I'm also mindful that man should never try to put words in God's mouth. I mean, we should never ascribe natural disasters or anything else to God. We are in no way, shape, or form should a human being play God."
-- Jan. 14th, '05 (Washington, DC)

"If you're the Methodist Church and you sponsor an alcohol treatment center, they can't say only Methodists, only Methodists who drink too much can come to our program - 'All drunks are welcome', is what the sign ought to say."
-- Mar. 1st, '05 (Referring to faith-based programs, Washington, DC)

Falun Gong etc.

2006-04-20T07:29:00.000+06:00

I had this whole blog planned in my head this morning about Jose Padilla whose case got punted back from the supreme court recently. It's rage-inducing, sure...but also legally complicated. So I got distracted, and I found the Falun Gong had come to town. They have been demonstrating outside my work these past couple of days. Yesterday I watched them from my office terrace, marching with a full band, banners, and vivid demonstrations of torture by the Chinese government. Chinatown was crazy today. The marchers stomped by in the thickest rush hour traffic, with hundreds of people stopping to stare at the vaguely creepy serenity and orderliness of the Falun Gongers. Occasionally a ketchup-blood splattered lady with duct-tape across her mouth would solemnly hand out leaflets.

Immigration Rally Pictures

2006-04-18T10:57:00.000+06:00

Okay, last word (maybe) on the immigration thing. Or pictures. I went to the Immigration rally last week, but I didn't take my camera. Luckily, my friend, Claire did. Yay!

Check out those pics here.

Immigrant Reform Arguments that Induce Screaming

2006-04-18T08:31:00.000+06:00

Arguments and points raised that make me want to pull out all my hair and stuff them in my ears or something. Hence giving literal meaning to bald mary.

1. Taking away American jobs from Americans.

This is such a complicated, thorny problem that reducing it into a sound bite is really frustrating. The fact that there is little to no evidence to support this seems to matter very little. There is however a fairly manipulative and misleading basis for this connection. Studies that draw a correlation between decreased native jobs and increased immigrant labor. This is a strange analogy to me. Illegal immigrants come to this country to work, and the jobs they find are not registered, moderated monster.com work. So the fact that someone who is willing to pick tomatoes for 10hrs a day for below minimum rate wages, is more likely to be employed doesn’t mean much. My point is that illegal immigrants are in this country mostly to work, while this is simply not true for natives. It’s an odd comparison to make to begin with. It hardly shows that these immigrants are taking away jobs from Americans. The truth is that we have no real idea that the jobs that undocumented workers typically take would even exist if there were no illegal immigrants.

Legal immigration is a different view on this issue. The jobs that legal immigrants take are more likely to be jobs that Americans compete for, so presumably they do take jobs away from Americans. However, is that such a bad thing? Legal immigrants who get these jobs aren’t getting them because they are immigrants (they get them despite it, in so many cases); they get them because they have better qualifications. Isn’t that what we would want to happen?

Even if you don’t agree with that, what is undisputed is that these jobs hardly contribute significantly to overall job loss. This is also true for out-sourcing jobs which raised so many hackles in last year’s elections. The more communities that contribute to the work force, create small businesses and develop neighborhoods (thereby spending money and contributing to the market) only improve and enrich the economy.

2. They are illegal, isn't it illegal? So they are punishing something illegal. What's the problem?
The argument is not about whether or not illegal immigration is illegal, it is whether it should be criminalized into a felony. The problem is that coming into this country and working for 80 hours a week for $5/a day is not the same as raping and killing someone. These are not criminals. You are not allowed to pretend they are not workers who form a huge part of our culture, our economy, and our political system. This is a country that has been built on the sweat and the blood of immigrants, it is disgraceful the utter contempt with which the Republican Party has returned the favor.

3. Illegal immigrants shouldn’t acquire status that legal immigrants worked so hard to get.

-This makes me gag a little. I feel like shouting, “don’t you dare use me to sell your sorry ass policies!” This is an argument custom built for Americans who don’t actually know any immigrants—legal or illegal. The HR: 4377 resolution creates a hostile environment for legal and illegal immigrants alike. (Check this out if you have real player--interviews of legal detainees conducted by CAIR)

Any guest worker program is an inherently sensible policy—it encourages illegal immigrants to get documented, bringing them out of secrecy—something that salves both immigrants and protects our borders. The more we know about who lives and works here, the better we are able to understand our threats. For immigrants, the necessary secrecy that surrounds illegal status increases their risk of violence, and exploitation. Its exact counterpart is the HR: 4377 resolution which doesn’t have any guest worker provisions, will drive undocumented workers further into the shadows and isn’t actually feasible in any sense of the word.

My other posts on immigration here and here.

there's a giant t.v. screen at the end of the tunnel

2006-04-12T07:19:00.000+06:00

There are reasons why I have not noticed that the metro has put up advertisement-spouting, high-definition t.v. screens inside the subway tunnels. If you are a stalker and observe me riding the train, you will see that my habit for the past year has been to take out my book almost the very instant I find a seat, and bury myself in it for the next 20 to 30 minutes. I am a genius at drawing down the shades around me on a crowded subway train. This is why I was completely startled this morning (nearly jumping out of my seat) when I saw a silvery, shiny car outside my train window while it was hurtling through the subway tunnels.

That's right. A car. A Lincoln. Pretty, flashy, retina-burning car.

It's like McDonalds spreading the news on organic co-ops. Self-defeating, sure. But as the only major metrorail system in the US without a dedicated funding source, we can only tight-lip-shake-our-head through this too. Along with that one train car with the splashy, talking chevy-chase bank machine all over it like like green, grotesque pimples--we can only feel sorry for the shameless whoring of our rail transportation system. *sigh*

Some charming Metro poetry I found:)

It's the craziest thing I've ever seen:
If I wait for a Yellow, it's bound to be Green.
If I'm looking for Orange and I know that it's due,
The next train arriving is bound to be Blue.

Lot's more good ones here

Immigration Reform Re-visited: Update

2006-04-09T01:24:00.000+06:00

I laughed for about five minutes when I saw this cartoon this morning. I then forced my poor roommate to read it, and she chuckled politely. lol. Good one...

After weeks of wrangling and griping, the lumbering, finicky giant known as the US congress came to a compromise that actually garnered a semblance of bipartisan support. But yesterday the bill and discussion fell apart again. No resolution was reached. And the legislation was sent back to be re-tooled. Below is a really nice graphic of the compromise reached by the Senate. What was the problem? The democrats were unwilling to hedge on a procedural point regarding the number of amendments being allowed on this bill. Reinforcing the image in my mind of the Democratic Party as sniveling, petty little yes-men who will wield power in the most petty, littlest way possible.

Even if the Senate gets its act together and stops bickering the bill still has to be reconciled with the measure passed by the House last year. I blogged about that horror show here. There’s a rally happening in DC on Monday , April 10^th--The National Day of Action for Immigrant Justice. I am going to try and attend. I will post pictures if I do and remember to take my camera. These rallies make me proud, nothing has helped shake up congress more than the force of ordinary people demanding their fair share loudly and in large numbers. What else would explain all the attention the circus show at the hill is getting?

From the Washington Post Article: Senate Pact Offers...

I can't stand you

2006-04-08T21:14:00.000+06:00

It's difficult to hide the fact that you dislike someone. Not hate, but just this insidious low-grade dislike that pokes through despite your best efforts. It's like love that way. I have disliked people before, obviously. Plenty of them. But the older I get, the less people I interact with on a daily basis that I just can't stand. I have learned to flick them out of my life quickly, swiftly and sometimes gleefully. When I meet these lost souls who have fallen out of favor with me I am able to identify them faster and, we mutually avoid each other to continue our lives happily without the buzzing urge to kill.

Currently there is one such lost soul in my universe. She's actually a pretty normal person most of the time. Even though secretly I believe she is incredibly selfish, childish, continues to say stupid, mindless things that are presented as thoughtful, and has no affection for logic. And I am of the opinion, that I like most people and get along with most without too much effort. So I am valiant in my efforts to like her--I strive so hard that my fake smile begins to hurt, and my neck is creaking a little from bobbing up and down so much by the end of our conversations. Consequently, I am awkward, insincere and humor-less around this person for which I blame this person. It's a vicious cycle, people.

Critical Fictions: The Politics of Imaginative Writing Edited by Philomena Mariani: Book Review

2006-04-06T06:56:00.000+06:00

Margaret Atwood’s essay, The Female Body, begins with the wonderfully playful request, “I agree, it’s a hot topic. But only one? Look around, there’s a wide range. Take my own, for instance. I get up in the morning. My topic feels like hell. I sprinkle it with water, brush parts of it, rub it with towels…I dump in the fuel and away goes my topic, my topical topic, my controversial topic, my capacious topic…”

The very idea of a book that has collected essays about the politics of creativity is as provocative and irresistible an idea as Atwood’s invitation above. What would that look like? What does that mean? With the collected works of 41 internationally renowned authors from Zoe Wicomb and Ama Ata Aidoo to James Baldwin and Salman Rushdie, this collection of essays attempts to answer these questions through writings that explore “what it means to be writing from specific race, class and gender positions at a particular historical moment.” Which is to say that is a hopelessly inadequate description to the wonderful diversity and range found here.

This is a good book, with a few really great essays butting heads with feminist theory, poetry, and fiery conference presentations. One of the great things about a book like this, is that one minute you can be thoroughly irritated by the somewhat nonsensical incantation (and embarrassing if you picture it being blasted at a pro-choice rally in DC as it was) by Alice Walker’s The Right to Life: What can the White Man Say to the Black Woman? And the next minute you are sucked in by Philomena Mariani’s evocative and finely wrought essay, God is a Man. Among the noteworthy is my old favorite—Notes of a Native Son—which reminded me again why I love James Baldwin. Here’s an essay (like so many other treasures in this collection) that exemplifies how politics and art can be a formidable force that speaks the truth more loudly and clearly than anything we listen to or read. With exquisite finesse, Baldwin paints for us the racial politics of 1940s America through the lens of a difficult and abusive father. Here’s one of my favorite passages from that essay.

He was, I think, very handsome…Handsome, proud, and ingrown, “like a toenail”, somebody said. But he looked to me, as I grew older, like pictures I had seen of African tribal chieftains: he really should have been naked, with war paint on and barbaric mementos, standing among spears. He could be chilling in the pulpit and indescribably cruel in his personal life and he was certainly the most bitter man I have ever met; yet…buried in him, which lent him his tremendous power and, even, a rather crushing charm. It had something to do with his blackness, I think—he was very black—with his blackness and his beauty, and with the fact that he knew that he was black but did not know that he was beautiful.

Gorgeous. If I had my way, I would be typing out his entire essay.

There’s one more that stands out—a newbie (to me)—Gary Indiana’s Identity Check. A moment that poignantly captures the essence of the entire collection, is when the narrator’s mother discovers his diary and reads the lurid fantasies that her son has been having about his brother’s best friend—a poor, Portuguese teenage boy who lived “literally on the wrong tracks”. Here’s that passage.

She refuses to believe that Eugene’s big, stiff cock is a little boy’s fantasy. She grills me for days, an avenging cop: Where did it happen? How many times? Eager to blame an outsider for “corrupting” me, she cites this episode years later, still convinced of its reality, as the likely “cause” of my homosexuality. That might have been my first intimation of the power of the word…this writing was able to cause an eruption of violent feelings. My imagination altered the state of things in the real world.

The best of the pieces in this collection asks us to reconsider art as the only adequate medium for the truth and the politics of identity. At its worst, there are hysterical outcries against “oppressors” by the “oppressed”—words used too freely, blithely. If you get one of the latter, you can always flip it over and come to this challenge: “Rather than set agendas for various kinds of writing, we can do more than ask of our education system that it encourage the writer to think about how she positions herself in the political space. Reactionary positions may well be reduced, or may not. But readers will have to be prepared for both possibilities.” (Philomena Mariani’s God is a Man)

Indeed.

Immigration Reform Bill: Give us your rich, educated and white

2006-03-29T00:09:00.000+06:00

Without a doubt, the immigration reform bill being debated in the senate right now is the ugliest, most racist piece of legislation that has passed since the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882. Introduced by one Rep. F. James Sensenbrenner, Jr. from Wisconsin, the Border Protection, Antiterrorism, and Illegal Immigration Control Act of 2005 has already passed the House with an over 90% republican support. Even though, Bush himself opposes such sweeping, irrational legislation, it speaks volumes about his lack of leadership and inability to gain any bipartisan support except for the most mundane and ultimately inconsequential bills (read Dubai port scandal).

Over 500,000 activists rallied in California over the weekend, protesting a bill that if passed, would do several completely horrible things. Among other things, it’s a bill that effectively turns illegal immigration into an aggravated felony that carries with it mandatory prison time. It criminalizes employers with the same sentencing imposed on smugglers. And furthermore, it supports building a wall (a bigger wall—one already exists) on the US-Mexico border (utterly ignoring that all the 9/11 terrorists crossed over from Canada). It hysterically claims that being a rapist or murderer is akin to being a poor, low-wage, illegal immigrant.

One of the biggest, most glaring problems with immigration reform is its unnatural coupling with anti-terrorism enforcement. We see this with the bureaucratic nightmare of conflating the Immigration Naturalization Services (INS) and the Department of Homeland Security. I know I am being naïve, and that the reality is that too many Americans see combating terrorism as an immigration problem. After all, terrorists are immigrants, and the threat comes from the outside. Of course, it also blithely ignores the fact that the overwhelmingly vast majority of immigrants (both legal and illegal) do not commit crimes.

The fact is that fighting terrorism and implementing immigration reform, while related, are enormously different issues. And they require completely different policies for meaningful, comprehensive change. They are joined in our culture and particularly politics, by some of the flimsiest, most reactionary and thoughtless arguments ever used. And yet, especially after 9/11, it becomes harder and harder to see the difference, that was so easy to do 10 years ago.

Also, I hate Bill Frist. More everyday. Unlike Bush, he never makes me laugh and is a joyless troll-man.

The bill is going through the congressional strainer right now, with new provisions, and amendments added seemingly every day.

Check out this very cool site for more information: Gov Track

Death can be stressful

2006-03-28T04:57:00.000+06:00

Funny (sorta) stuff from the US Army. Warning to all incompetent, unlucky bastards (check out the last line in parantheses).

For the complete chapter, go here.

(2) The Army knows that airborne and air assault training are not just intended to teach the skills needed to arrive on a battlefield after jumping from a low-flying aircraft or repelling from a helicopter. Their greater value comes from requiring soldiers to confront and master their extremely strong, instinctive fear of heights under circumstances which are deliberately stressful at the time. During training, this fear builds self-confidence and a sense of special identity on completion. (In fact, the training itself is not exceedingly dangerous, statistically speaking. However, the possibility of death does exist if you are extremely unlucky or fail to do the task correctly. This can contribute to additional stress.)
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Blank Noise Gets Noisier

2006-03-26T07:59:00.000+06:00

This past week, I've been compulsively taking time out of my lunch break and commenting on a post about the Blank Noise Project --the blog-a-thon on street harassment that I posted on a couple of weeks ago here. Before being called an incoherent village witch doctor, I was thoroughly enjoying the debate and it got me thinking about a bunch of stuff that I'll indulge in here. Below is a synopsis of the comment train between me and F (note: I truncated the discussion for manageability sake, but there's a bunch of other viewpoints in there as well and F addresses all of them.) For the "original" source/post, go here.

Sony said...Of course it's possible for women to be victims of street harrassment, and not have a strong opinion about it. Not only is it possible, but it's completely okay. It is simply one way (out of 100s) to survive and cope with (at the very least) the threat of sexual violence...more

F said...I'm not saying that all women necessarily have to blog about this, or that it would make them feel better if they did. I'm saying that a) I find it surprising and depressing that 80% of women would feel happier staying quiet about something that outrages them, even when such silence means abandoning and isolating their fellow sufferers who have had the courage to speak out...more

Sony said...What I was trying to communicate is that women don't have to participate in some blog to show their strength, they do it everyday in countless other ways. And I am not attacking men, but why aren't we questioning their nonparticipation? In fact, if we are going to see some change, we need to change some perp. attitudes (most of them men), not female...more

F said...I completely agree that male apathy is a serious problem. I just don't see how that makes female apathy any less troubling. The fact that male attitudes need to be changed doesn't mean that female attitudes don't need to be changed also - so bringing in male attitudes is just obfuscating the point and trying to shift the responsibility...more

Sony said...The fact that the overwhelming majority of BNP were women somehow translated into silence for you is truly interesting. This 80% that you are flinging around is problematic by your own admittance. The assumption that half of the Indian blogger world are women and that most of them had to have come across the project--are shaky at best...I disagree that men are apathetic because women have been reticent about this. In my experience (and I'm certainly not alone), male attitude can be summed up by this post. If we are playing the numbers game, he got over 50 comments, that's more men who commented than blogged for BNP...more

F said...I'm not questioning that women per se have done a lot to attack sexual harassment. I'm questioning your claim that women who don't talk about it have done a lot to attack sexual harassment. My point is that talking about it is the only way to attack the problem. So if you're not doing that, then you're not doing anything for it. I'm sure there are plenty of women out there who are doing tons of good work to attack sexual harassment. I'm suggesting that those are precisely the women who are blogging about it as well...more

Sony said...To me BNP, rallies, vigils and all such activities--are much more a celebration of our solidarity for victims of sexual violence than it is about raising awareness. You mentioned this in your post, there is no one unaware of this issue. Who doesn't know that sexual harrassment is something women face? It's a complicated problem, and I don't believe the solution is placing more responsibility on women. I don't believe that talking/blogging is necessarily the answer. Sometimes it's not...more

F said...So my next question is - if it didn't change your argument on whether I was right in my earlier post, why bring it up then? That's a classic example of starting a second argument that has no connection with the first one. It's like saying: "I won't go out with you because you're not rich enough." "If I were rich enough, would you go out with me?" "No." And you wonder why I call it a red herring...more

And then it ended…

It’s funny to be on the side of valuing silence, instead of shouting your story at the top of some proverbial mountain. I feel the need to clarify that I am not against BNP—I’m only against this idea that if women do not participate, it must mean they have abandoned their sisters in shame and guilt. If women aren’t talking about it then it must mean they aren’t doing anything about it. It’s as insidious as some do-gooders sweeping into a poor community somewhere and getting frustrated that some seem to be just going about their business, instead of talking about their poverty. (Side-note: As I state above, I am highly skeptical that 80% of female Indian bloggers came across BNP, and decided to not post. His numbers are fiction. )

When feminists/activists talk about male accountability, it is usually met with eye-rolling impatience. Well yes, that’s a given, isn’t it? Sexual violence would certainly cease to exist if men who commit these crimes would stop. But what gets lost in the discussion, is that male participation is not an ancillary, “wouldn’t it be nice” dream. It’s instead an integral part of fighting sexual violence and gender inequality. It is easy to point to all the mistakes women make, and all the ways in which we have failed. Less often do I come across well-deserved recognition of what we have already achieved.

As an aside (and probably another post another time), it continues to surprise me that proudly calling oneself a feminist is sometimes akin to calling yourself racist or sexist. There’s this sense of “we are for women’s rights, but let’s not go that far, we don’t hate men.” It’s a little weird. Are there packs of feminists roaming the country engaged in unsavory behavior? Feminism is one of those strange constructs in our culture that no one seems willing to embrace, despite the fact that we might agree with everything it stands for. Almost never do I hear feminism criticized for its own terms. As Aliz Kates Shulman aptly put it in her essay, "The Taint": "Because, let's face it, feminism --initially perceived as daring, sexy, rebellious, gutsy, new--is now suspected in certain circles of being tainted, like food that's been around too long: even if it's still all right, better not take a chance on it.."

Presidential Talk #3

2006-03-20T06:45:00.000+06:00

"I believe that people whose skins aren't necessarily, or, you know, different color than white can self govern"
-- Jan 30, 2004
(Speaking with Canadian PM, Paul Martin)

"I think they're defeated and that's why they continue
to fight. " --May 23, 2005 (referring to Iraqi Insurgency)

"Laura recognized somebody by name. I am too."
-- April 21, 2004 (National Race for the Cure Reception)

"I think the world is, uh, you know, beginning to see a different impression of America"
--March 8th, 2005 (refering to America's Tsunami Relief Efforts)

Brahmin and Catholic Rules for eating Meat

2006-03-20T03:46:00.000+06:00

There's a story that my mom likes to tell that I love to hear.

"Long long ago, there was a Brahmin boy lost deep in the forest. He wandered around for days, and eventually arrived under a Peepal tree, hungry and scared. It was in this condition that he saw a small dog crouched under the tree. He pulled a branch from the tree, beat the animal to death, roasted it using the nearby banyan tree and ate it. Eventually he found his way back to his family, and told his story to his father--the head Brahmin priest. It was in this way that the priest sanctioned the rules for eating meat. "You are allowed meat : a). If you have wandered the forest for 10 days b). are under a peepal tree; c). you are eating a dog; d) using a peepal branch to kill it; e) roasted it in a fire built from banyan branches. "

There are several reasons why I am very fond of this fable. It points to the all too human origins of even our most sacred laws. It underlines my long held belief that our rules are made by the powerful for the powerful. It teaches us the skills necessary for survival when wandering lost in the forest. A delicious recipe for roasting dog. Lessons that I believe the Christian right in America could use some education in.

I was thinking of this story, when I heard about the Archbishop granting dispensations for eating meat--specifically cornbeef--on St. Patrick's Day this year due to its un-desirable arrival on a Lent friday. Eating meat for St. Patrick trumps not eating meat for Jesus for many.

Bread and Wine by Ignazio Silone: Book Review

2006-03-14T11:57:00.000+06:00

Translations are treacherous. They're like a foreign film where you watch a character gesture emphatically, red in the face and shrieking, while the subtitles coldly state, “Why?” Something has been lost in the shuffle, buried under the exotic. Reading Ignazio Silone's Bread and Wine was to hear its narration muffled and distanced by the English language.

Set in the 1930s under Mussolini's rule, the story begins gently enough in a quiet, Italian countryside. With an elderly priest and his aged sister waiting for visitors to come celebrate his birthday. The nervous anxiety of the sister, while she worries that no one will come mingles uncomfortably with the priest’s forced optimism that some one will. Eventually three gentlemen join them. And we find out more about why the priest has lost favor in the community—his unwillingness to separate the church from the current politics of the country. The scene effectively sets the stage for the coming debates on communism and social responsibilty that will be wrestled with for the rest of the book.

The novel quickly leaves the priest behind to follow one of his students, Pietro Spina, as he steals his way back into Italy as a socialist comrade. Reluctantly his schoolmate (a doctor), decides to help him lie low for a few months in a tiny, rural and impoverished village where Spina is disguised as a priest—Don Paolo. During his time in hiding, he learns more about the terrifying hopelessness and resignation of the villagers. It is there that he begins to question the utility of the opposing Communist party, and eventually severs his ties when he discovers the party's support for Italy's war in Ethiopia.

Despite the strong political undercurrent, Pietro Spina’s story remains removed from the crisis in the country. This is largely because Pietro himself, is such a privileged character who is not ever seriously affected by the poverty around him, or burdened by familial obligations like the others. Even the romantic connections he forms, soon dissipates, and is forgotten.

Despite its dogged campaign against conformity, and popular thought of all kind, nothing endears me to this book. Prevailing throughout is a thinly disguised contempt for the rural villagers, and their perceived ignorance, passivity and apathy. The women are mostly smothering, feminine creatures plagued with hysteria (the very last scene and character being an important and interesting exception). Like Ayn Rand's Fountain Head, it tackles themes of individual thought, socialism and captilism and its effect on the "simple, working man". However, unlike Rand's infamous work, Bread and Wine argues with a more succinct logic, and somewhat less irritatingly allegorical narrative that group-think breeds ignorance and a blind following. George Orwell's 1984 does this best of all, but that's another book review for another post.

Originally penned in Italian, Bread and Wine was published in multiple languages throughout Europe in the mid-1930s. Not surprisingly, the book was vilified and banned by Mussolini’s government, making it dangerous to possess, much less read. In this way, within this context, the ideas celebrated in the book are shocking and revolutionary. It takes no sides. It denounces capitalism, while betraying sympathy and respect for land-owners and bankers. It embraces communism, while sneering at its conformity and eventually dismissing its legitimacy.