No Thiruvasagam at Thiruchitrambalam

I don't usually associate myself with the language movement partly because I don't relate to the extreme views they seem to espouse, and partly because these campaigns are pretty much taken over by political parties and so you want to have nothing to do with them, but here's a recent controversy at the Chidambaram Natrajar that caught my attention. (Thanks to Sun TV which between my mom's favorite tearkjerkers reported this story yesternight. Committed to helping the Don cut the jackfruit that fell off the tree yesterday, I had no choice but to watch TV)

The story is that this old Saivite dude wants to recite Thevaram and Thiruvasagam at Thiruchitrambalam(which is located right in front of the sanctom sanctorum) inside the Chidambaram Natarajar Temple, but he isn't allowed to do so by the Podhu Dikshithars who run the temple. Reasons, you ask? Two, actually.

1) Only the Podhu Dikshithars are entitled to sing the glory of the Lord from the Thiruchitrambalam. Others are of course welcome to stay a little away from the Lord and recite whatever they want.

2) Only Sanskrit hymns are allowed. Thevaram and Thiruvasagam unfortunately are in Tamil. So sorry, Natrajar understands Tamil only when its spoken from a distance.

Yeah yeah, all this in the land of the Dravidian movement alright :)

So anyway, what does old Saivite Mr. Arumugha Samy do? Demands police protection so that he can go sing his thevarams. Not so fast, the Podhu Dikshithars move court and get an injunction. Soon after, the Municipal Court Judge rules that no, Mr Samy cannot sing his hymns inside the Thiruchitrambalam. Why, you ask again? Two reasons again.

1) It will affect the sanctity of the place and
2) It will disturb law and order and result in a loss to the Dikshitars.

Before you ask, yes, this is the Court. The Hon'ble Judge made the ruling citing these reasons.

One Book to rule them all...

[Yeah okay, this is late but it ain't my fault, they decided the book after I left the city.]

The City of Chicago announces the newest selection for the One Book, One Chicago program - Jhumpa Lahiri's Pulitzer winning Interpreter of Maladies. Lahiri now will be spoken in the same breath as Harper Lee, Jane Austen and Alexander Solzhenitsyn. For the uninitiated, this One Book, One Chicago thing is sort of a big deal in the city - every bookstore, every coffee shop, and every library will display the book prominently during the next six months; there will be readings and discussions all over the city. Can't do any harm to the movie that's slated to come out soon, I guess.

PS: Bill is jumping up and down with joy, all Bongness oozing out. But he wants me to make it clear to you all that like every self-respecting Bong, he likes only two of the nine stories in the book. And no, he doesn't think Lahiri should be writing novels.

Late Links

After all that pain abt being home for Onam, spent the last couple of days across the Ghats in Kuttralam. Don and I got lost in the forest trying to find more watefalls and Mummy dear had to come rescue us. Also, after witnessing my super cool driving up and down the Ghats, Don's promised me the keys to his car. Trip accout coming up soon. If you insist, you can go read about my last year's Peru trip here.
:)

While I have been away, more Booker reviews have come in:

Prufrock Two reviews The Night Watch here.

Falstaff's review of Theft: A Love Story here.

Falstaff's review of The Secret River here.

PS: The man's sort of promised that he ain't going to read prose for sometime, so you still have a chance if you want to be the first to finish all the books on the longlist.

Athapoo time

Don and wife took me to a Boys' Home yesterevening for the Home's Onam celebrations. Don's buddy is a patron of the Home, and we were all treated to an excellent Onasadya. Here are some pictures from the Athapoo competition:

Home Alone

Back home in God's own land after a busy three days in Bangalore. B'lore has become almost unrecognizable to say the least.

Highlights of visit include:

1.Dutifully turned up a couple of days early for friend's wedding but strategically complained of jetlag and didn't lift a finger. On wedding day, acted as if one was doing all the work and managed to get hazaar accolades from everyone except ofcourse the bride. The wedding consisted of an Arya Samaj ceremony in the morning, a church wedding in the afternoon and a reception at night. All went off peacefully.

2. Met the kind Professor at the Institute and bored him to death. Conned kinder Doctor (aka the kind Professor's wife) to feed me dinner. Delicious dosais with podi :)

3. Promptly got lost atleast once each day and complained to everyone about how buildings and landmarks seemed to have changed places since the last time I was here. No one was amused.

Finally managed to get on a flight home. All grand ideas of making an entrance and surprising the Don (aka the Father) didn't really work. Don was all happy to see daughter until he realised that jobless daughter was going to stick around for a few months. Don and wife informed daughter that they have a life which cannot be altered to suit daughter's schedule. Like today, poor daughter is home all alone while Don and wife have gone to attend the fourth wedding of the day. It is Aavani alright.

Booker Reviews

As expected, Falstaff's reviewing the Booker books like nobody's business. Review of Black Swan Green here and review of Mother's Milk here.

So it goes...

Keys pulled out of the keyring and neatly arranged inside the top, right cabinet in the kitchen, a cursory look around to see that nothing remains, no trace of the person who lived here the past few years. It rained as I stepped out of the building and into the cab, premature showers proclaiming end of summer. No time to walk by that lake. Past the tree lined streets of Lincoln Park northwest onto I-90. Everytime I pass this way, I peer into my rearview mirror to look at the glorious skyline but I did not turn to look at it yesterday. O'Hare loomed ahead, a little omnious. Twenty five boxes in a friend's basement from where the movers will pick them up and ship them to England; my India suitcases in the cab with me. Did I just leave home or is it home I am flying to? Why does home have to be such a possessive idea?

2006 Booker Mela

Its that time of the year again, and Falstaff ain't letting me get away without a Mela, so here we go:

The Booker long list is out. Though its not a star studded cast as it was last year, it has some interesting entries. So all of you get ready to read and review 19 books in 60 days. Lets see how much of it we can get through. Rules like last year - pick a book or two and let me know that you will be reviewing them, and when you are done send me a link to the review.

Here's the complete longlist:

Carey, Peter Theft: A Love Story - Prufrock Two
Desai, Kiran The Inheritance of Loss - Falstaff's review, 30in2005
Edric, Robert Gathering the Water
Gordimer, Nadine Get a Life - Falstaff's review, Nithya
Grenville, Kate The Secret River
Hyland, M.J. Carry Me Down - Dips
Jacobson, Howard Kalooki Nights
Lasdun, James Seven Lies - Falstaff's review
Lawson, Mary The Other Side of the Bridge
McGregor, Jon So Many Ways to Begin
Matar, Hisham In the Country of Men
Messud, Claire The Emperor’s Children - Black Mamba
Mitchell, David Black Swan Green - Small Talk's review, Falstaff's review, Veena
Murr, Naeem The Perfect Man
O’Hagan, Andrew Be Near Me
Robertson, James The Testament of Gideon Mack
St Aubyn, Edward Mother’s Milk - Falstaff's review
Unsworth, Barry The Ruby in her Navel
Waters, Sarah The Night Watch - Falstaff's review, Prufrock Two, Anoop

Last year's Mela here.

PS: Falsie, you don't need to pick any - that's only for people who have a life. I will put you down for all of them.

Leaving America

I stepped out of the flight yesternight feeling happy. I would never have to do this ORD – LAX leg again, this is my last trip. I skipped along the jet way, and my sandal strap promptly snapped. Of course it stands to reason that this had to happen on the week when instead of carrying two shoes and sneakers, all I had was the pair I had on. And so, a few minutes later, instead of whizzing through the car rental place, I stopped by the counter. I asked the lady directions to the nearest shoe store. Like every Ethiopian I meet, she mistook me for Liya Kebede and we had a long discussion about Ethiopian food in LA before I got my shoe store directions. Stepping out, I felt a little sad; in my two years of frequent travel to this place, I have gone into the counter and met these people maybe thrice.

I was reminded of last Thursday, when I started to pack up six years of my life in neatly arranged boxes of three different sizes. Nostalgia was definitely in the air and it slowed me down considerably. But interestingly enough, this time I wasn’t thinking of this country's amazing buildings and the wide open spaces that I would leave behind in another week. A long forgotten picture of the Yosemite half dome fell out of an envelope. The magnificence of the half dome, the Ansel Adams gallery, the tiring treks, and the log cabin at the village where we stayed all come into focus, but there was something else. A memory clip that eclipsed all the others. It is of my friend, the photographer who decided to entertain us that night four years ago, and climbed into a wooden box under the bunk bed in our cabin to perform what he termed a Houdini act. He would be here tomorrow, I thought, all the way from Austin, to load up boxes and drive the truck.

Austin is Anoop, SLR in tow, a Mohanlal style muffler around his neck patiently waiting for me below the escalators at Bergstorm International airport. San Francisco is Shilpi and BM at the BART station, and as I get into BM’s black bug, the aroma of chicken biriyani that they just picked up from a friend’s takeout joint. Alaska is the innkeeper who spent a good couple of hours teaching me how to carve wood, and make headboards. Boston is J, with his plays and insects, watering plants and visiting cemeteries. New York is Stu with her men and her ideas, getting younger with every passing year, and now, there’s MR too, in her trendy UWS studio, all sensible and driven and trying her best to make me feel not so married. Key West is the homeless man outside Hemingway’s home, in Fahrenheit 451 style, memorizing every Hemingway he could get his hands on. Sacramento is TS, always the perfectionist and Raleigh is CJ, always the believer. San Diego is the stowaway from across the border who taught me how to make a mean mojito. Pittsburgh is J smoking pot inside her beat-up convertible, and of course Bill who every time I turn up in his apartment unannounced has what I call “What the hell is this woman doing here?” look on his young, innocent face. And it is these people that I will miss most (okay, okay, not Bill) when I leave the country for good next week. It is, after all, the people stupid.

On Sunday last, after we were done with moving, we took another of those architecture river cruises. A ninety minute lowdown on all the interesting buildings of the windy city. Right after a quick tour of the Wright’s Robie House in Hyde Park. An architecture day alright but as we stepped out of the boat onto Michigan Avenue that evening, my mind wasn’t on Jahn or Weiss, Graham or Khan, not even Wright. Instead, it was on the people I actually knew.

The End of an Affair

I remember the exact moment that I realized that I was hopelessly in love with you. Two and a half years ago, in front of the Rookery at LaSalle and Adams. I had known you on and off for years, and the last year we were quite intimate. But it wasn’t until that very ordinary moment on a dreary winter afternoon, when I was about to cross the street and all I could see was you all around me, you and nothing else, that I finally seemed to have gathered the courage to acknowledge it. I still remember the exhilaration I felt then, that top of the world feeling, and I wanted to climb on top of that uber touristy tower, a building I usually try to disassociate myself from, and proclaim my love. So banal, I hear you say, no different from a lovesick, chick-flick watching yuppie about town. No, let me assure you, this was different. Not because I wasn’t a lovesick yuppie about town how much ever I would like to deny that, and certainly not because I spent the next three hours reading Sandburg borrowed from the nearest Borders, but because for the first time in my love life, in the same exact moment I realized that I was in love, I also felt utterly hopeless. You see, darling, I had always known that we didn’t stand a chance. We might have been meant for each other, but we weren’t meant to last.

I know what you are thinking. But no, just because this separation was expected does not mean that I am happy to let you go. This was always the moment that I would have to face somewhere in the near future, but remember that the near future didn’t arrive at my door for nearly three years. Three lovely years that we spent exploring each other. I remember the long walks in the park, stopping to watch the men play chess by the lake, the trips to Ravinia in late spring, sailing in the summer, running through the rain-drenched streets in fall, and the Art Institute in winter. We had our share of fights and I remember how much I used to sulk – when the wind didn’t spare me in January, every time I had to clear the ice, and that fateful day when I thought the car was stolen and walked around in sweltering temperatures searching and it was all your fault. I remember introducing you to my friends, singing your praises, and later feeling insanely jealous because they were getting to know you better.

I have spent countless number of days with you talking about how I would leave you one day as my restless heart would never be happy being in one place, but why then darling can I not bring myself to ticket an itinerary that I have blocked for the past three days? Why then have I been inventing one excuse after another for why I need to stay here with you? I know it won’t be long though. I will soon run out of excuses and get around to ticketing. And soon after that, I will be gone. No, not forever, never forever. We will meet again, I am sure, we will have our stolen weekends here and there; we will discover each other all over again, and this time with the pleasure of knowing that this affair is illicit and would last only for the weekend. Infidelity and betrayal for sure, but I wouldn’t be able to help myself. And I hope neither would you.

Finding the way home

Here. If only I can figure out a way to find such a long way home!

Part 2: Lost in the Tetons

Day 2

Teton Village, Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Wake up and see beautiful, green slopes in the backyard. Checkout and get out, and discover that this is a one-street town. Rich tourists all over the place. Posh hotels. An antique car auction in progress. We are a little confused; all this opulence doesn't make sense, isn't this just a small little town outside a national park? What are we missing? Winch. Oh yes, ski resort. This place's apparently a ski resort of some sort. We walk over to Snake River lodge to get some breakfast.

MR: Table for three please.
Waiter: Sorry ma'am, we are closed for lunch.
MR: But its only 10.20.
Waiter: Yes, but we close at 10 AM as you can see here.
MR: Hmm, is there any other nearby where we can grab food?
Waiter: Yes, if you walk up this hill here, the Four Seasons will be open for breakfast until 11 AM
MR: The what?
Waiter: The Four Seasons. Right up this hill.
...
MR: This place has a Four Seasons? Middle of Nowhere, WY has a Four Seasons, ha ha.
Bill: Apparently, it is not exactly Middle of Nowhere. I read this in the hotel brochure but thought they made it up
Me: Made up what?
Bill: Jackson Hole is the fourth most prosperous county in the United States
MR: Goodness! Anyway, think we should go check out Four Seasons. We have to eat right?
Me: Of course.

Two hours later, after a long, leisurely brunch at the Teton Village Four Seasons, Bill, MR and I enter Grand Tetons National Park. The Tetons are the youngest range in the family of mountains that includes the Grand Canyon, and the mountains in this range have no foothills. Lush green slopes, halfway up the mountains, the green's gone and snow's taken over. Much more beautiful that anything we had seen at Yellowstone the day before.


We decide to head North to Jackson Lake for a hike around the lake, and then get back to the Jenny Lake and hike up to Hidden Falls and Inspiration Point. Jackson Lake is very pretty, but the supposed hike is actually a mile-long stroll along the lake. We decide to go canoeing instead, and soon in three men in a boat fashion, we are going around in circles. While other canoes are happily speeding past us, we take our time and claim to enjoy the scenary. We get the hang of it after sometime, and we are cruising along different inlets amazed at our rowing skills. Very impressive, we think. We could easily make the Cambridge rowing team, Bill claims. MR performs some neat acrobatic feats to shoot some pictures.



Me: Isn't is time to turn back? We have been here for an hour, I think.
MR: Yeah, we should. It is quite late and we have to do Jenny Lake too. Lets turn back.
Bill: Yep, we have to go around this island and we should see the visitor center.
MR: Yep, lets see, twenty five strokes and we should be around the island. Go.

Twenty five strokes later, we are around the island. Happiness. We did it. But the visitor center is nowhere to be seen. Another island is there though.

MR: Looks like we did hazaar distance. It must be around this island. Lets go.

Around the second island, and we see a third one. But there are no inlets North of us. Which means we are in the open bay. The wind's blowing the other way, and the waves are becoming bigger. No other canoes can be seen. Only motorboats whose wakes nearly topple us. We are utterly lost.

Me: I think we are lost. We will call for help.
Me: You guys think we should call for help?
Me: This map doesn't say anything. I do not know which way to go. And my arms are dead.
Me: Guys, are you even listening?

Bill and MR both have the same serene look on their faces.

Me: So do you know where we are?
Bill and MR: No
Me: So we should do something right? We will get toppled over soon by these waves. We are going to die.
MR: Do she always get so hyper over everything?
Bill: Yeah, she does
Me: Dudes, this is my life!
MR: Oh, enough drama! I think this is the one. We should see the visitor center if we go around this one.
Me: Okay lets go. If we don't see the visitor around this bend, we will call for rescue.
Bill: Whatever

Around third island, and all we see are two fishing boats. We row over to one and ask them for directions. They cannot believe that we could get lost in the lake. Stifling laughter, they tell us to cross more islands and then follow the bank. And thus, three hours after we originally set out to conquer the lake, we are back on the shore - exhausted but elated. MR and I show off our bulging biceps to each other.

Next stop: Jenny Lake. We are to take the boat shuttle across the lake, and then a half-mile 250 ft climb up to Hidden Falls, and another half mile to Inspiration Point from where panoramic views are promised. But when we actually get to Jenny Lake, its past six, and the last boat left at six. But we, well, MR is not to be discouraged. The sun won't set until 9.20, she claims. Which means that we could take the 2-mile trail around the lake instead to taking the boat, and then climb up the hill. What if the sun sets, and who knows what creatures live in these jungles, says I. Vetoed. Soon I find myself following Bill and MR into the jungle. The last of the hikers are coming back. We seem to be the only brave people in the entire park heading towards Inspiration Point. Yeah yeah, we make it alright. Totally worth it. Here's Hidden Falls.



(Btw MR, where the hell are pictures that you shot from Inspiration Point? You mean to say after all that risking life comedy, you don't have any pictures?)

Well, the day ain't over yet. We got back down by 9.40 and drove out of the park into Jackson, WY. After searching for an hour for places to eat, we finally had dinner at a sushi place. And then drove like crazy across the Teton Pass, into Idaho Falls, and all the way back to Salt Lake City. Hit the bed at 4.30 AM.

Coming up: Day 3 at Arches / Canyonlands

Unrelated trip notes: Just back from a wonderful weekend in Northern CA. Good wine, great friends and The Tempest in the park. Could not have asked for more.

Part 1: Romancing Yellowstone

Day 0

Last Friday at SLC International Airport, I sat down to write an eulogy for the very average Mr Wainwright. Someone ought to do it, I thought. There was no doubt in my mind that Wainwright was dead. After all, Falstaff reached Delhi on time with all bags intact, didn't he? It stands to reason that Wainwright died. But I was mistaken. We all were. Mr Wainwright, I am glad to inform you, is alive and well. Why, just last Friday afternoon he spent three hours watching NASCAR races at a neighborhood bar in Greensboro, SC. While MR spent the same three hours sitting on the runway in Newark, NJ waiting for her flight to take off. You see Wainwright's life isn't really tied to Falstaff's flights being on time, it is tied to MR's travel plans working out as planned. Almost every time Falstaff's flights were delayed, it was really MR's travel plans that were in jeopardy. So Wainwright is alright. Just that MR, Bill and I got a very late start on our holiday plans.

Day 1

Woke up and realised that we were in Pocatello, Idaho. Apparently we drove here yesternight from Salt Lake City. Bill walks around the room claiming that he is in love with Idaho. Look out of window, Idaho State University campus. Go Bengals everywhere. No wonder Ohio and Idaho are Bill's favorite states now.

MR starts to unpack. This is surprising because we have to leave the hotel in the next half hour or so and we will never come back. Oh wait, no, she is not unpacking, she is showing me all her hiking gear to make sure that she did not miss anything. For a whirlwind "four national parks in four days" trip where our longest hike would probably take us three hours, MR has dutifully packed the following:

- Hiking shoes (1 pair)
- Backpack (Red and Black)
- Hydration pack (Camelbak)
- Hiking towel (2)
- Rain Jacket (Blue and White)
- Sweater and fleece jacket
- Flashlight (2)
- Swiss-army knife (1)
- Hiking socks (3 pairs)
- Reflector hat
- Water purification filter

I assure her that yes, the only things she's missing are tents and sleeping bags which we most definitely need but maybe we can pick them up at the park visitor center? MR looks skeptical. An hour later we get out of the hotel and have breakfast at the nearest IHOP which happens to be in the same strip mall as Macy's. No Macy's in Chicago, IL[1] but there is a Macy's at Pocatello, Idaho.[2]

Soon, we are on our way to the west entrance of the park. Before us, the horizon opens up its welcoming arms, the famed potato farms of Idaho stretches out on either side, the mountains behind them watchfully guarding them. The road is so straight that it could put the highways of the midwest to shame, and we peacefully cruise along at 90 miles/hour. After Idaho Falls, the potato farms give away to pine trees and the highway starts curving as we enter the Targhee National Forest. Up a steep mile-long stretch and down again, and we find that the trees have receded from the sides of the road. They are all the way back by the mountains, and stretching out on either side now are expansive, green meadows.

Bill: This is beautiful!
MR: Yes, it is.
Bill: Though I guess this is not what I thought this place will look like.
MR: Me too. I was thinking this place would be all parched with just sulphur pools.
Me: Agree but we aren't at the park yet. So maybe it will change.
Bill: This is so green and so big! This is like a Disney movie.
(MR drops her camera)
MR: This is what?
Bill: Well, you know how in the Lion King type movie, you see meadows like this extending all the way to the horizon.
MR: You see this and you think of a Disney movie?
Bill: But the sun rolling high / Through the sapphire sky /Keeps great and small on the endless round / It's the Circle of Life /And it moves us all
(MR gives me a look that says it all)


Up and over the Targhee pass and the state border, past the small town of West Yellowstone, MT and we find oursleves at Yellowstone National Park. A small river on our right, huge mountains on our left with trees, but no leaves. We stop for some pictures; a plaque tells us that the wildfires of 1988 burnt the forest down leaving only the stumps. Wildfires that despite best efforts could not be put out for months. Dickinson says You cannot put a fire out/ A thing that can ignite/ Can go, itself, without a fan/ Upon the slowest night.


After a brief stop at the visitor center where we are told 12 times that we should stay on the boardwalk at all times, we drive to Norris Basin which houses a host of geysers including the highest in the world - the Steamboat Geyser. We can smell the sulphur from half a mile away; its like being back in Chem lab. We walk over to the nearest pool which looks like a deep blue jacuzzi spouting sulphur fumes. The earth around the pool is parched and cracked, we read that one can get second degree burns just by stepping on them. We go over to the Steamboat geyser which when it is in action could rocket scalding water over 300 ft. But since we did not want to spend a lifetime waiting for the boat, we leave to see the other pools in the Basin. Vast stretches of land with smoke arising out every 30 yards or so; it would be Mordor but for the trees in the background. A dying land not yet Dead as Tolkien would have said.


We leave Norris Basin and drive towards Canyon Village. The landscape changes abruptly - one minute we are in the middle of arid hot springs with scant vegetation and the next, we are in Ansel Adams territory. Lake Yellowstone, bluer than Tahoe, before us in all its magnificence with snow-capped mountains behind her. At Canyon Village, we decide to hike down to see the Lower Falls of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. With 328 steep steps and a 410 feet elevation change, it is classified as a strenous hike. In the interests of making good use of MR's hiking stuff, we climb down to see the Lower Falls. It is most definitely worth the climb up.

After stopping at Artist's Point so that our staff photographer with her wannabe-SLR camera could shoot some more pictures, we drive to Old Faithful to witness the grand performance. 40 minutes to go before Old Faithful's expected to send out water, the Park Ranger tells us. Just about enough time for MR to set up her photo shoot. While Bill and I get dinner, shop for souvenirs and take a walk around the place, MR finds the perfect spot to shoot the geyser from, sets up her tripod and fiddles around with the camera settings. A young, Punjabi couple walk past her.

Man: You are so bad. You keep taking pictures all the time.
Woman: I like taking pictures. Is that a problem?
Man: No, but you behave like a Japanese tourist. Or worse, like some Patel.
Woman: You look there. Look at that woman there. See how she is setting up her shot. That is how you take pictures. You wouldn't understand.[3]

Yeah yeah, Old Faithful was quite loyal. Here.



And a bonus picture showcasing MR's talent. When I pointed out that the sky did not look anything like this that day, I was told that I am too stuck in reality and that true photographers transcend reality. But, of course.



Coming up:
Day 2: Getting lost in the Tetons
Day 3: How to borrow a tripod to shoot the Arches at twilight

[1] Yes, I know Macy's technically own Marshall Fields now. But it still says Marshall Fields okay?

[2] Note to Falstaff: Throughout the trip, Bill missed you. But on this particular occasion, when he saw MR and I exchange glances on seeing Macy's, he actually screamed for help. I am quite sure you must have heard that SOS call in Delhi.

[3] Now when you see the billboards back home with pictures of MR with Rebel on them along with captions like "This is how you shoot", you know exactly how MR became the role model for trigger happy Punju women all over the world.

PS: Yeah, I know. Footnotes, poetry, copious descriptions and making fun of MR n times do not belong here in this blog. But hey, I was just trying to check off at least four things on my cheat sheet on "How to write a long, rambling Falstaffian post".

PPS: Falstaff, let me remind you that you asked for this.

Never Again

Too lazy to start a travel blog, so this space proves too inviting. First piece here.

PS: Yeah I know, depressing place to start with but hey, it can only get better, no?

Close encounters with the canine mind

Middle of Nowhere, CA. Huge cars on wide freeways and multi million dollars homes on hills. Homes that I have seen tumbling down during mudslide season but they build them back anyway. I complain about coming here all the time, taking a four hour flight every week to get to the land of the sprawl puts me off but then, watching the sun set over the Santa Monica mountains on a glorious evening (as if there is any other kind in this part of the country) makes me want to fly here all over again. The mountains are always golden here in the golden state except for a few weeks in January when the rains and the Santa Ana winds confers on them a familiar shade of green. Yes, all's well with the world as I set out from the hotel to climb the nearest mountain. I can see the mountain from my room, the foot of the hill can't be too far. Past the wide roads with no pedestrain crossings. Every house has a neat garden or two, and every garage a BMW or two. A cute little gate like in a fairy tale and a sign that reads "Come in and smell the flowers". I hesitate for a moment, read the sign again and walk in. Wildflowers, a waterfall, and incongrous classical statues. I sit down on a low bench and contemplate life.

The Glockenspiel at Marienplatz strikes 12. Mozart plays at the Schönbrunn Palace. Tango at the Brahms bar in Stephansplatz. A Swarowski guitar is playing Joni Micthell's California. The guitar changes into a veena, which someone is playing in the Malibu temple. Outside the temple, the Malibu canyon beckons. I drive through the canyon, and buy puliyodharai at the SV temple. At peace, I sit down to eat in a garden with a fountain. Ah, the heavenly taste of fresh tamarind. I wake up to find a huge dog staring quietly at me. I jump up. The dog keeps staring, it doesn't make a sound. I start sweating. There is no doubt that the dog is waiting for me to move before pouncing on me. I look around for the owner. No such luck. I look plaintively at the dog. I start talking.

"The sign said come in and smell the flowers. I wasn't trespassing or anything."

You weren't smelling the flowers.

"No, I was smelling the flowers and then I fell asleep. I didn't mean to."

Really? I wonder what you were really upto.

"I wasn't doing any harm. I will leave now."

Be my guest.

"I am going to retrace my steps. Just watch, okay?"

Are you blind? I am watching.

"See, I am taking a step back. And another."

I can see dammit. Shut up.

"Just a few more steps and I will be out of your garden. I mean no harm. I am not stealing any flowers."

Of course you weren't. You were sleeping on my bench.

"I am opening the gate now. I will lock it when after I step out. I promise."

Let us see.

Out. Gate locked safely. I make faces at the dog.

"You stupid dog! You thought you were going to get me? Ha Ha! Now we will see what you do."

Enough talk. The dog barks. Finally. It comes running to the gate. It puts up one of its paws around the latch. I watch, shell shocked as the gate swings open. The dog steps out, stops and stares at me. I start talking as I walk backwards. All the way downhill.

Bloomsday

On this date every year I promise myself that I would finally finish reading the book before the next anniversary comes around. After nine years of resolutions, I am at page 56. Here's to hoping this year will be the lucky year!

Writing(?) Rant

I am sure most of you will agree with me when I say that in the literary world back home, this phenomenon of young, desi women (both NRIs and RNIs) coming out with books is completely out of control. Almost every other day, one hears of new offerings from these "remarkably talented" women who seem to be blessed with "insights" that escape us mere mortals. They are everywhere - in the newspapers, on TV and worst of all, in bookstores. Ludwig commented here and I can't help agreeing (based on my last vist home) that "it has become vitually impossible to go to a bookstore and browse decently, one is assualted by a phalanx of "new Indian writing" every single time". To be fair, yes, we find male writers too but A) Chetan Bhagat is marketed as Chetan Bhagat, and not as the next Rushdie. And B) Unlike every other female friend I have, every other man I know is not working on a book. So I will risk the generalization/anecdotal evidence charges and restrict this post to the writers of the fairer sex.

Here then, dear reader, I offer you a beginner's guide on how to write one of these books..err..things. Yes, I did read one such thing. Just one, you ask? Well, two to be accurate. All in the interests of patriotism and supporting upcoming writers, I assure you. Not to mention, altruism. I read them because you don't have to. How nice of me!

Begin Internalization
Before I begin, I should really say here that I do not direct these remarks against the miniscule army of talented Indian women writers who I read and admire, but merely against that particular hardcore who seem to equate ignorance with charm, condescension with caring, and stringing together random words with writing.
End Internalization

1. Setting: It was all well in 1995 to write about cross cultural displacement and such but as we all know this is 2006. Everything that's to be written about those things have already been written. So the settings and ideas that you could relate to - upper middle class upbringing, big cities, displacement, existential angst, masturbating civil servants are all out. Instead pick something that you are utterly clueless about - how about a small town in Kerala? Oh wait, that's been done before. How about a small town in Maharashtra? Better still, how about a village in Bihar? Yes, that is it. A village in Bihar is where our story will be set. Does it matter that you have never been to a village, let alone one north of the Vindhyas? Of course not. You are writing a book dammit, not saving the world.

2. Writing: Now that we have a background, time to start writing. In our first chapter we will describe our Bihar village. Don't fret, I have a five point formula on how to do the actual writing. This is what you do:

- Open Websters. If you don't own it, now would be a good time to go buy.
- Find random 50 words that is not used in common speech.
- Write them all down one after another.
- Write two foreign phrases like "c'est la vie" or "sine qua non".
- Insert proper nouns and prepositions in between these 52 words.

Viola, your first chapter is done. Now for the remaining twenty-four.

3. Research: To get to the story, something has to happen in this village. But what? Look West, young woman, look West. There is Bollywood to the rescue.

- Think of all the movies from Sholay to Swades which were set in villages.
- Go borrow all of them from the neighborhood video library / Indian store.
- Watch one a day for the next month.

Your research is complete. You can now proceed to the story. Before we move on, one thing to remember: Make sure the movies you are watching are scripted and made in Bollywood. In other words, don't even dream of watching Pather Panchali. It could destroy your book.

4. Story: Write down all the cliches that you saw in the movies. Add more cliches that you have read in similar books. Insert all of these at appropriate places in the book. Cliche 708, the one about the evil priest at the village temple? Yes. Cliche 2051 - the villain walks around with 35 bodyguards and looks like he just stepped out of a Ram Gopal Verma movie? No, why not? Add it in right now. (Since this is a free guide, I cannot give you a checklist, no. I will soon roll out a paid service which will include a listing of 13201 cliches. Send me an email if you are interested.)

5. Market: Always always always keep the foreign audience in mind. This point can not be stressed enough. Remember this is where the money is. So my dear young woman, now is a good time to sell exotic India. Here's a free checklist of things to put in:

- Elephants
- Monkeys
- Cows
- Priests
- Untouchability
- Abuse
- Dowry
- Child marriage
- Singing in the rain
- Mangoes
- Snakecharmers are OUT. They are not in vogue. Take them out.

6. Action: How much action can happen in a small, Bihar village? Time to move to the cities. Pick five random cities. Set the next five chapters in these five cities. Villains and heroes galore. A Bollywood style finale in which the heroes beat up the villains right before the police arrive. Cut to years later showing happy family in village with kid named after a friend killed by the villain. End.

Please note: All conversations in these cities will have accents. Of course, our heroes from our little Bihar village speak the Queen's English which is why they find these accents very confusing.

7. Title: The key here is to pick something not too obvious. Don't you see people making fun of titles with "spices" and "mangoes" in them? But it cannot be vanilla plain either. The common misconception is to think that the title should have something to do with the book that you just wrote. Not at all. Pick a title that sounds deep and then go back to the book and insert words from the title in every chapter. See, that was easy. (Yeah okay, I do have a list of titles but I am not going to give them away for free. No Sir.)

All done? What are you waiting for? Go publish it. Sell it as an insightful story about the realities of human life, a triumph of the human spirit or some such thing. Feel happy. Rest. Get some sleep. You have contributed to the betterment of society and in the process, mananged to produce a work of art. What more can one ask for?

A day well spent

At the Printers Row Book Fair.

Calvino to Bellow, loads of books were bought. Peace it should have been but that was not to be. At the very last stall, saw Alberto Manguel's A History of Reading out of the corner of my eye. Reached for it, but A~ touched it a millisecond before me. She bought it for $2 while I keep gazing at it with intense longing. Such is life.

Canyon Notes Part 2: In Hoodooland

So, please remember
When I leave in December
I told you so in May

So I sang to my manager last week, sick of optimizing sales calls to hospitals and physicians. I had forgotten all about the hoodoos of the week before, those God-like structures shaped by the wind and the water who for a moment brought a diehard atheist like me, down to my knees. But early this morning, I was brought back to the real world by the Poet who sent me his collection of poems from his visit to Bryce Canyon sometime ago. He writes about the hoodoos and about us mortals who make our annual pilgrimages to these temples of nature:

Hoodoos –
Gods eroded to the size of men
Huddling together in the broken places of the world;
Stone chessmen
Trapped by the wind’s gambit.

Where does it come from,
This urge to walk between the towering stones
And feel small?

Deep in the heart of Bryce Canyon
There is an area called Wall Street
Where the sun has its boardrooms
And the business of the wind is done in whispers
Away from the listening ears of the clouds.

What does it mean
This fifty year old name
Applied to rocks that have lasted the millennia?
Only that this too is a place of gain and loss
Of fortunes discovered in the pure gold of the sun
Pouring down from the high places.
(The eagle rising like a stock index
Sensing the mood of the sky)
Only that you have to be very brave
Or very rich
Or very foolish
To venture here.


I am not the Poet, and I cannot write verses about the hoodoos to save my life but I can and I will go back to my little travelogue and offer up some snippets, some pictures and hopefully, a few laughs.

En route to Bryce Canyon from Zion. Frontbenchers enjoying the view. Conversation at the back somehow went from Murakami to Rushdie to Mr. Sen.

BM: Is there anything that man doesn't know?
Me: I know, he is so well rounded. (Turning to Bill) Your parents should have sent you to Shantiniketan and then you would also have turned out like him. Instead some vague Jesuit school you go to and look how you ended up.
Bill: Since I have never lived in Calcutta, I don't think my parents ever thought about that. And anyway, if it means anything, the late Mrs. Gandhi went to Shantiniketan.
Anoop: If I may interrupt, I think Bill is well on his way to being well rounded, Shantiniketan or not. Don't you think so?
Me: Thanks for reminding me that I am married to a pot bellied Bong monster.
Anoop: If I remember correctly, the choice was between a pot bellied Mallu monster and a pot bellied Bong monster. Wasn't much of a choice if you ask me.
R: Look, look doodoos doodoos. We are at Bryce.
Anoop: No, we are still 20 miles from Bryce. And the word's hoodoos. But yes, these are hoodoos.



We make a brief stop at the Bryce Canyon visitor center to figure out which hike we should take. There we discover what hoodoos really are. They are a geological term for things that the geologists do not know what to call. Who would have thought? We decide to take the Navajo Loop/Queens Garden trail and set out to Sunset Point from where the trail begins. Soon, we are climbing down the canyon, switchbacks et al, hoodoos at eye-level now.



Me: I get it.
Anoop: What do you get?
Me: These Mormons and all these religious people.
Anoop: Really? You get them? That's an achievement.
Me: Yeah, I mean if I were like this pioneer who were to stumble across this place, I could be forgiven for inventing the next big religion. Just look at this place.
Anoop: I see your point but seriously, if you were this pioneer person, spirituality is not what would cross your mind.
Me: Hmm..what would I think of then? I know!
BM: We are waiting.
Me: They are red dammit, they are red. They have no clue but they sure are Red.
Bill: Hoodoos of the world unite. You have nothing to lose but your tourists!
Anoop: Exactly.

Wall Street appears before us in full glory. The tree dating back 700 years. How did it ever get there, you wonder.



Past the Queen's court and up to the rim now to Sunrise Point where the lazy tourists with their binoculars are. Anoop suggests a fifteen minute silence, an idea aimed solely to shut me up so that others could peacefully enjoy the scenary. I shut up for about ten but can't take it any more. I point to some random hoodoos and claim that they were the inspiration for Mt Rushmore. Everyone glares at me and I am made to shut up. A good half hour later, we are back at the parking lot figuring out lunch. We decide to go to the Bryce Canyon Lodge where we are staying to see if we can get some food. At the Lodge, after an awesome lunch, we check into our cute, little cabins which we discover are about an eighth of a mile from the canyon rim.



This is as close to the canyon as one can get to stay, so Anoop starts planning out sunrise photoraphy, something which the rest of us are pretty skeptical about. Waking up at 6.15 AM is not a big deal for me, but getting out of bed at 6.15 AM sure is. We are more interested in checking out the night sky, we tell Anoop, that is supposed to be really pretty.

We spend the rest of the day driving to different vista points in the Canyon. Bryce Point from where you can see the Bryce Amphitheater is spectacular, but the rest of them are pretty much the same. We get back to the Lodge where the men claim they have some variety entertainment planned. Soon they are parading on an imaginary ramp wearing mundus that Anoop carefully brought all the way from Austin. Needless to say, Bill has no clue how to carry a mundu so it keeps coming off and almost every other minute, Anoop has to rush to the other end of the ramp to protect Bill's modesty. It definitely was entertainment for the rest of us.

Dinner happens soon after and as we step out of the restaurant, we are greeted with a sky that none of us had ever seen before. The density of stars up there is unbelievable, someone suggests that some kind of GM(Genetic Modification) must have been done. But the moon is nowhere to be seen. And so as we set out to the canyon rim for a moonlight walk among the hoodoos, our guiding light is a cellphone. None of us had a flashlight. BM leads the way with her cellphone blazing in front of her, a human chain behind her. We reach the rim but the moon still doesn't oblige. Dark shapes rising up from the canyon in the front of us lit by the stars up above.

Sunrise.

Anoop: Akka! (Note: Akka is what Anoop calls me when he wants to be humble and sarcastic at the same time)
Me: Mmmmm..
Anoop: I know you are awake. So why don't you stop acting and get out of bed?
Me: What time is it?
Anoop: 6.45 AM
Me: Oh shoot. Bill, wake up.
Anoop: Austin time. Same as Chicago time.
Me: Okay. Bill, wake up na?
Anoop: The pleasures of married life. You could pester your partner to wake up first.
Me: Shut up, will ya? Bill, wake up.
Anoop: He won't wake up. Are you coming to see sunrise or not?
Me: I wil see sunrise but I am not hiking down the rim.
Anoop: Okay.
Me: Hey, when do we have to leave for Vegas?
Anoop: 10 AM
Me: Okay.
Anoop: See ya in an hour. Or two. If I don't come in two, just wait.

We all saw sunrise. Down from Sunrise Point. But the man who hiked down to Thor's Hammer got the pictures. Here.

Canyon notes, Part 1

A fast track weekend trip to a couple of scenic places out West. Back home and chill during the week. Perfectly innocent. Well planned. Well timed.

Friday 8.15 PM. Bill and moi at Las Vegas Intl Airport.

Me: I hate this place.
Bill: You masochist you.
Me: You mean you like this city?
Bill: No, I just don't hate it. Let's just say that this is the least likeable city I have ever been to.
Me: Same thing.
Bill: No its not.
Me: Wait, why are we going inside a PGA tour store? The others will be at baggage claim.
Bill: I forgot my belt.
Me: Good to know. But the question remains.
Bill: Do you see any other store here that I can get a belt from?
Me: You want to buy a belt here? And I suppose I get to pay for it.
Bill: The idea did cross my mind, yes.

Ten minutes later, at the cash register:

Register Lady: Are you guys on your way out?
Me: No, we just landed.
RL: Are you staying at the strip?
Me (vehmently): No. We are driving into Utah.
RL: Really?
Bill: Yeah, there are a couple of national parks that we are going to. Zion and Bryce Canyon.
RL: Oh. Are you Mormon?
Me: What? Do we look like Mormons?

Soon we met up with the others. Happy reunion ensued. Anoop and I go to get rental car while others went up to grab some food. At the Hertz counter:

Me: What car did you say you reserved?
Anoop: A GMC Yukon.
Me: Is it on this sheet? Show me.
Anoop: Here, this one.
Me: That thing! You expect me to travel in that monstrosity?
Anoop: There are seven of us plus luggage. You have a better idea?
Me: Wait! Not only do you want me to travel in this bus you also expect me to drive it. I am not used to driving trucks. Where are you from anyway? Texas?
Anoop: Well, actually yes.
Me: I should have known. Get a Texan to book a car and you get a Yukon. I guess I should be happy its not a Hummer.

Soon we are one, big happy family driving out of Nevada on our brand new, red GMC Yukon listening to Kill Bill and catching up on the latest gossip. BM and I were just about done with people from school and getting to bloggers when the driver interrupts. Anoop asks us to look for Bumbleberry Lane. Apparently we are staying at a place called Bumbleberry Inn which happens to be on Bumbleberry Lane. Do not laugh, Anoop does not think that's funny, neither does he care to enlighten us what a bumbleberry is. We find the Inn finally, surrounded by omnious mountain ranges (this is 1.00 AM) the building looks like something out of a horror movie. We pull up to the entrance, no lights are on, the lobby is closed. Stuck to the door we see a note addressed to Mr. Iye. (The R is silent dammit.) It asks us to go directly to our rooms; the check-in can be done in the morning. We trudge along to our rooms. They are spacious and sort of normal. Quite a disappointment after all that scary movie setting. All fall asleep.

Next morning, after a sumptuous breakfast at the Bumbleberry Restaurant we made our way into Zion National Park. First thing on the itinerary is the Scenic Highway tour which can only be taken using the Zion shuttle. We all crowded into the shuttle. Regular tourist crowd. Older white Americans, some Europeans, just one big desi family other than us. All with SLRs and Rebels and Insurgents and whatever it is that they call them nowadays.

First stop: Court of the Patriarchs. That's Abraham, Jacob and Isaac. (Not exactly in that order.) Could very well have been Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva I guess.



We decided to walk along the Virgin River to the next shuttle stop instead of taking the shuttle. It looked beautiful. What we did not realise however was that the trail was still being used as a horse route. Which meant that for the next one mile, we were treated to the earthy fragrance of horse shit. The genteel among us complained. The rest of us shut her up.

After a brief trip to some Emerald Pools (there was really nothing much to see there, I'd rather go with the waterfalls of Kutralam, thank you), we chilled around Zion Lodge for sometime. I mean food was around, so it made sense. Then we boarded the shuttle for the Temple of Sinawawa. Saw some pretty mountains on the way. The mountain ranges in the distance were either red or white depending on whether the top layer was iron oxide or calcium carbonate. Angel's Landing looked quite majestic and Anoop was very much interested to scale its heights but I had a readymade excuse. Vertigo. We reached the final stop, the Temple of Sinawawa.



We went down a trail to the Narrows - apparently the canyon narrows to about 4 feet in certain places with the river running in between. We did not get to see it as the trail was closed after a certain point as the water level was high and flash floods was a real possibility. We could do with some flash floods, I thought, it was about 96 degrees by then. The Virgin River looked quite inviting, so I ran along and jumped. Freezing water. Nearly died in there but dutiful Anoop came running. Bill, needless to say, was laughing his head off.

After I was rescued and properly cared for(I got more than my fair share of snacks), we decided to head back to the Inn. As we waited for the shuttle, Bill got talking to this cute, hep, old Indian couple.

R: Have you noticed something about Bill?
Me: What? That he is really quiet? We all know that.
R: No, not that. Have you noticed that he talks more to strangers than he talks to us.
Me: I can't say that I haven't.
R: Why do you think that is?
Me: Because strangers talk to him?
R: That's not the point.
Me: What are you trying to say dude?
R: He doesn't like talking to us.
Me: I see. Here he comes. Lets ask him.
R: Who are those people?
Bill: They are super nice. They live in Chicago and they just retired, so they are taking this big national parks trip around the country. Cool no?
R: Yeah? How did you get talking to them?
Bill: I don't know. They talked to me.
R and I exchanged glances.

Later, over lunch at our favorite Bumbleberry place(none of us were willing to try the Bumbleberry Pie as Anoop refused to tell us what a bumbleberry is), we figured out plans for the rest of the day. Our original plan was to do Mt Carmel Highway, but instead we decided to go to Kolob Canyon. Kolob Canyon was supposed to be really beautiful at sunset and we figured we could get to the Mt Carmel Highway the next morning on our way to Bryce Canyon.

We set out. Things got a little dicey as I was made the designated driver - Anoop wanted to shoot. As I mentioned earlier, I really wasn't used to driving trucks. The biggest thing I had driven until then was a big Japanese car so you see the problem. But not only did I manage to drive that bus perfectly, I even climbed on top of that thing and got Anoop to take pictures. In the interests of keeping up my bleeding-heart liberal image, I will not make those pictures public but instead, here are really awesome pictures of Kolob Canyon at sunset.




The next morning, we set out bright and early. The Mt Carmel Highway was out of the world that time of the day. Mountains on all sides, the road had a series of switchbacks leading up to a narrow, dark 1.6 mile long tunnel. If you were a heavy vehicle(since this is America, ours did not qualify), you would need to be escorted through the tunnel by a park vehicle. Coming out of the tunnel, we were treated to a number of checkboard mountains, the most popular one being the checkerboard mesa. The vertical and horizontal lines are formed by two completely independent processes and that they happened to occur at the same place is either an amazing coincidence or a proof for the existence of a God depending on which side of the fence you are on.



Coming up next: Part 2 - Wooing/Voodooing the Hoodos.

PS: If you are wondering where I disappeared for a week since all this was last weekend, no interesting excuses. 16-hour work days. Punishment for wooing the hoodoos, I am told. I will explain, I promise. Patience.

PPS: All photos courtesy of Anoop Iyer.

They call it pollution

We call it life. Here.

Relax. Take a deep breath. Let the expletives follow.

[They were making fun of the ad in today's edition of one of my all-time favorite programs on NPR - Wait Wait Don't Tell Me.]

Busy, trivial, inoffensive

AO Scott having the time of this life here.

Raining writers / Water everywhere

A friend of a friend was in town today for a book reading and in the interest of supporting budding writers, trundled along to Andersonville this evening. Promptly got lost trying to find the bookstore and thus ended up exploring the neighborhood. Guilt, shame and denial all happened simultaneously as one realised that as much as one's heart belonged in a place like this, one would still continue to live in the yuppie paradise of Lincoln Park. Finally managed to find the Women and Children First bookstore at the corner of Clark and Berwyn. An independent, feminist store, it was exactly what one expected it to be - Plath ruled the poetry section.

Soon, the usual suspects started streaming in. Middle-aged activists from Wisconsin, students and wannabe students who looked like they just stepped out of their classrooms, a modest sample of second generation South Asians, three women of the Oprah variety who one was sure would surely feel one with the widows in the book before the reading was over, desi aunties and one uncle, a couple of moi-type people, about 40 in all. Women ruled, no more than 5 men. Guilt struck again as one realised one hadn't heard about the book until yesterday, so ran to shelf and pretended to read random passages until the authoress made her appearance.

The reading went very well. Devyani was extremely articulate, super-confident and great at reading out loud. Right amount of witticism, intelligent answers to questions, connected with audience. The passages themselves, while not exceptional, sounded well-written. One thinks that the book is definitely worth looking into especially if one's into memoirs and such.

The book: Shooting Water
The writer: Devyani Saltzman aka Deepa Mehta's daughter
Book reading schedules here

PS: Did spend some time with the writer later and she is not only nice but seems sensible too.

Random airport conversations

Yesternight. Bookstore at Chicago Midway. 8.35 PM CT.

Random Guy(RG): Do you know what this is about?

Me: No. (If you don't know that, do NOT touch that book.)

RG: I have never heard of this guy. Is he good?

Me: You have never heard of Philip Roth?

RG: No, Is he good?

Me: Have you heard of the Nobel Prize?

RG: What? Of course. Did he win the Nobel?

Me: No, but he will.

RG: Oh okay. Thanks.

Puts Everyman back on the shelf.

Me: And btw, he is also the script writer for Desperate Housewives.

RG: Really? I didn't know that.

Takes book back from shelf and walks to cashier. It is moments like this when I know that I am capable of murder.


9:05 PM CT. Gate waiting area.

Rrrnnnng.

Me: Hello?

BM: Hey. What are you upto?

Me: At airport. Waiting for flight to Pittsburgh.

BM: You are going to Pittsburgh?

Me: Yeah, quite unplanned. Got sick of work today and wanted to get away. So bought a ticket this evening.

BM: What?

Me: Yeah, getting AR to pick me up. Bill doesn't know.

BM: Ha ha. This is so funny.

Me: What's funny?

BM: First of all, it is so out of character. Bill will ask you who you are and what have you done with Veena when he sees you. And wasn't it just yesterday that you were making some tall claims on Falsie's blog? Here you are now, all pining for husband dear that you catch a last minute flight to go see him. You think this is not funny?

Me: Yeah whatever. Can't a girl decide where she wants to go?

BM: She sure can. Dude, is everything alright?

Me: Yeah, don't panic. I can't believe this myself okay? But what the hell? Spring is beautiful in Squirrel Hill.

BM: Yeah, of course thats why you are going. To enjoy spring in Squirrel Hill and Schenely Park. Spring there is so much better than at the shores of Lake Michigan.

Me: Enough alright? I need to board now. Talk to you later.

In flight. 11.20 PM ET.

Guy in Plane(GP): Pardon me, but did you say the name Arjunan while you were on the phone?

Me: Yes, he is the friend who is supposed to pick me up.

GP: Arjunan is actually one of my favorite characters in the Mahabharata. The story of him and Krishna is one of the best ever.

Me: Oh, okay.

GP: Have you see the movie The Legend of Bagger Vance?

Me: Might have. I don't remember very well. Wasn't it about a drunk golfer and his mentor?

GP: Yes, the golfer name was Raymond Juno. R Juno, it is supposed to be Arjun.

Me: Really?

GP: Oh yes, The story of Arjun and Krishna was what they were trying to potray in that movie.

Me: Interesting, I never knew that.

(To be fair, the rest of my in-flight conversation was actually very interesting. The man happened to be a school teacher who teaches world history to high school students in Chicago and I had a wonderful time chatting with him. When he finally said that he has never met anyone (esp in flights) who is so enthu about history, I told him that he lives in the wrong country. He agreed.)

So much for liberal bias

I am really curious. How many of you hear of Colbert's performance at the White House Saturday night from a major media source? Could I just be blind?