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?
Monday, June 26, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 16, 2006
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!
Monday, June 05, 2006
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?
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?
Saturday, June 03, 2006
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.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
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.]
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.]
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
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.)
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.)
Monday, May 01, 2006
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?
Friday, April 28, 2006
Losing our national soul
Bush on the national anthem in Spanish comedy:
"One of the things that's very important is, when we debate this issue, that we not lose our national soul,'' the president exclaimed. ''One of the great things about America is that we've been able to take people from all walks of life bound as one nation under God. And that's the challenge ahead of us."
Now I know why we Indians lost our national soul. Because our national anthem is in Bengali.
"One of the things that's very important is, when we debate this issue, that we not lose our national soul,'' the president exclaimed. ''One of the great things about America is that we've been able to take people from all walks of life bound as one nation under God. And that's the challenge ahead of us."
Now I know why we Indians lost our national soul. Because our national anthem is in Bengali.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Firewalk
The only time I saw someone walking on fire was when I was 10 years old. We were visiting my parents' village and there was some festival at the Kali temple. My father wasn't very happy with me going to the temple for the festivities but I wasn't going to give in that easily. This particular temple used to be my favorite Kali temple in the whole world for the simple reason that they used to serve the world's best aadu kaal rasam (goat's leg rasam). Those of you who have tasted this heavenly concoction will no doubt agree with me that animal sacrifice should be made legal. [In case you are wondering, no, this Kali temple is not a favorite anymore. Hasn't been for a long time. It has got nothing whatsoever to do with my irreligious temperament if that is what you are thinking. It is simply because they don't serve me aadu kaal rasam anymore. For the same reason that they won't let me into Sabarimala. I happen to be a woman. Needless to say, I wasn't going to live without addu kaal rasam, so my grandpa got the cook at the temple to come home and make me the same thing, but that is another story.]
So anyway, I am taken to the temple and made to stay away from where they slaughter the goats. Women all dressed up and dignified. Let me tell you that the neem-leaves carrying, yellow sari-wearing woman devotee that we are so familiar with is a creation of the Tamil film industry and in the days before such movies, you wouldn't have found any women in the villages of Tamland doing such nonsense. But men, now men are a different story. Lots of men and kids with their bodies pierced with vels (Yeah, Vetri Vel Veera Vel, Go Chola land!) and other such medieval weapons and carrying all sorts of contraptions on their shoulders. I believe it is called a kavadi and there are enough places in Tamland where they still have the kavadi festival. I am told that they don't usually do it for Kali but this time, they figured what the hell. You know might as well make Her happy too.
At this point, I notice that both my parents seem a little too distracted. I sense some undercurrent of nostalgia in the air. Then my mother starts telling me about the time when she was 15 and had come to my father's village for some temple festival and my father, yes, my super-agnostic father taking a kavadi, something which he vehemently tries to deny and then gives up and claims he did it all to impress her as he knew that she was coming to visit. As much as I was interested in the family romance, I was much more curious about the goat slaughter and walking on fire stuff, so I take this opportunity to leave my parents to their reminiscences and slip away.
Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, all the goats have already been slaughtered and I only get to see the rasam being cooked. I chat with the cook for sometime and then sneak off to the hot coals place. A lot of kids stand around and are hedging this other kid to walk on the coals. This poor thing, hardly 8 years old, his face pierced and painted looks at the coals and starts crying. His mother rushes in and explains to him that it wouldn't hurt and that he can go in after other kids. A man walks by me, obviously very drunk, with the kavadi on his shoulders. His family and friends come and stand around the coals and start singing religious songs. The man turns around and whispers to the guy beside him. The guy rushes off and gets a glass full of what I assume is country liquor. The man downs it and shouting some religious chant that I couldn't quite decipher steps on the hot coals. He then runs through the coals reaching the other end where another of his pals is waiting with another glass of you know what. The crowd seems to be in total rapture. And my father finds me and drags me away.
Why did I think of all this now, you ask? Because walking on fire is apparently back in fashion. [Link via Abi]. Now if only someone had told us this sometime ago, the blogosphere would not have had to have an ugly fight about the merits and demerits of reservations. All we need to do is to get aspiring students to walk on fire.
So anyway, I am taken to the temple and made to stay away from where they slaughter the goats. Women all dressed up and dignified. Let me tell you that the neem-leaves carrying, yellow sari-wearing woman devotee that we are so familiar with is a creation of the Tamil film industry and in the days before such movies, you wouldn't have found any women in the villages of Tamland doing such nonsense. But men, now men are a different story. Lots of men and kids with their bodies pierced with vels (Yeah, Vetri Vel Veera Vel, Go Chola land!) and other such medieval weapons and carrying all sorts of contraptions on their shoulders. I believe it is called a kavadi and there are enough places in Tamland where they still have the kavadi festival. I am told that they don't usually do it for Kali but this time, they figured what the hell. You know might as well make Her happy too.
At this point, I notice that both my parents seem a little too distracted. I sense some undercurrent of nostalgia in the air. Then my mother starts telling me about the time when she was 15 and had come to my father's village for some temple festival and my father, yes, my super-agnostic father taking a kavadi, something which he vehemently tries to deny and then gives up and claims he did it all to impress her as he knew that she was coming to visit. As much as I was interested in the family romance, I was much more curious about the goat slaughter and walking on fire stuff, so I take this opportunity to leave my parents to their reminiscences and slip away.
Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, all the goats have already been slaughtered and I only get to see the rasam being cooked. I chat with the cook for sometime and then sneak off to the hot coals place. A lot of kids stand around and are hedging this other kid to walk on the coals. This poor thing, hardly 8 years old, his face pierced and painted looks at the coals and starts crying. His mother rushes in and explains to him that it wouldn't hurt and that he can go in after other kids. A man walks by me, obviously very drunk, with the kavadi on his shoulders. His family and friends come and stand around the coals and start singing religious songs. The man turns around and whispers to the guy beside him. The guy rushes off and gets a glass full of what I assume is country liquor. The man downs it and shouting some religious chant that I couldn't quite decipher steps on the hot coals. He then runs through the coals reaching the other end where another of his pals is waiting with another glass of you know what. The crowd seems to be in total rapture. And my father finds me and drags me away.
Why did I think of all this now, you ask? Because walking on fire is apparently back in fashion. [Link via Abi]. Now if only someone had told us this sometime ago, the blogosphere would not have had to have an ugly fight about the merits and demerits of reservations. All we need to do is to get aspiring students to walk on fire.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Google spin?
But as Lee and I talked about how the Internet was transforming China, he offered one opinion that seemed telling: the Chinese students he meets and employs, Lee said, do not hunger for democracy. "People are actually quite free to talk about the subject," he added, meaning democracy and human rights in China. "I don't think they care that much. I think people would say: 'Hey, U.S. democracy, that's a good form of government. Chinese government, good and stable, that's a good form of government. Whatever, as long as I get to go to my favorite Web site, see my friends, live happily.' " Certainly, he said, the idea of personal expression, of speaking out publicly, had become vastly more popular among young Chinese as the Internet had grown and as blogging and online chat had become widespread. "But I don't think of this as a political statement at all," Lee said. "I think it's more people finding that they can express themselves and be heard, and they love to keep doing that."
Huh? The guy is Kai-Fu Lee, head of Google operations in China in case you were wondering. From this really interesting piece in the Times.
Huh? The guy is Kai-Fu Lee, head of Google operations in China in case you were wondering. From this really interesting piece in the Times.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The fragrance of a woman's koondhal
Remember the Kannagi post? Wrote this one immediately after and then promptly forgot to publish. So here goes.
The Kannagi post has gotten me thinking of Tamil role models. Hero worship is not exactly unknown in our part of the world and methinks that there is some potential for a series on people (real or fictional) that we choose to put on pedestals. [While I think that hero figures in other parts of the world are also worth looking into, we Tams do seem to have some kind of talent for finding some really interesting(okay, weird) characters.] We could call this series From Kannagi to Rajinikanth or something as inane as that. To kickstart, let me do a post on one of the Tamland's most revered Sangam age poets - Nakeerar.
Every Tamil kid worth her salt is taught early about Nakkerar and his quarrel with Siva. "Netrikkan thirappinum kutram kutrame" (A mistake is a mistake is a mistake. Not really. Its more like even if you open the third eye, a mistake is still a mistake.) has to be one of the most often quoted lines in any Tamil home. Well, at least it was the case in my home where this quote used to make its appearance in every one of my parents' tiffs. The six year old I was, I thought that Nakeerar was this thatha I hadn't met yet who would one day magically appear before me and open his third eye and scorch all my enemies. My parents were very embarrased when they discovered that not only was I reciting this very false story to all and sundry but I was also explaning in great detail how this thatha's third eye story applied to what my parents were fighting about. So they sat me down and proceeded to tell me what I thought for the longest time was the real story of poet Nakeerar.
Nakeerar is the head of the Sangam that judged poetry in Madurai, the capital of Pandya country. One day the Pandya king announces that he would reward any poet who composes a verse that expressed the king's secret thought. Tarumi, a poor brahmin (played to perfection by Nagesh(Ravages tells me) in the movie Thirvilayadal) wants to get married but he doesn't have the money. So he goes and prays to Lord Siva and asks him to compose a poem. Siva, feeling all sorry for the brahmin, composes a poem and gives it to him. Tarumi runs all the way to the Academy and recites the poem. The king hears the verse and is very happy as it beautifully expresses what he had in the inner reaches of his mind. He is about to give Tarumi the reward when Nakeerar stops him and claims that there is a flaw in the verse. Poor Tarumi runs to Siva and shouts at the Lord for giving him a flawed poem. Siva gets all angry, emerges out of the lingam in the form of a poet and puts in an appearance at the Academy. He wants to know about the flaw in his verse. Nakeerar tells him. Siva doesn't agree and gets even more angry. His third eye opens slightly and Nakeerar realizes that the poet is none other than Siva and that if the third eye is fully open, he (Nakeerar) will be scorched to the ground. But he remains firm and tells Siva that "Netrikkan thirappinum kutram kutrame"! By now, the third eye is fully open and Nakeerar has to run to the Theppakulam (The Golden Lotus tank outside the Meenakshi temple apparently) and hide there but what happens after he scorns Siva is all supposedly besides the point. The point is that this poet stood up to the Lord himself and told him that he was dead wrong. This, all Tam parents feel is very much worth emulating and thus we Tam kids get to hear a lot about Nakeerar. We are told that we should be like Nakeerar and should stand up for what we believe, for what is true and just no matter what the consequences. We are shown plays and movies of Nakeerar at every available opportunity. [Aside: Growing up, there was even a popular Tamil magazine called Nakeeran which my Dad used to read diligently. It did a lot of investigative reporting and exposed scandals all over the place. I remember the editor 'Nakeeran' Gopal was in prison for sometime under POTA - this man published in-person interviews with sandalwood smuggler Veerappan and LTTE supremo Prabhakaran among others if I remember correctly. Anyone know if the magazine is still around?]
So anyway, what's wrong with the Nakeerar story? Nothing really. Just that I had always thought that Nakeerar and Siva were fighting about some complicated poetry structure which I wouldn't be able to understand. And then I find out that that is not at the case at all. I find out that while what I have heard about Nakerrar is true, its not the entire story. The real story is actually extremely funny and much more interesting. I did not discover it until a couple of years ago when I happened to find the controversial verses in an after-essay in A Poem at the Right Moment - Remembered Verses from Premodern South India. So what had I missed before?
Remember the thought that the Pandya king had in mind? It apparently came to him while he was in the royal garden smelling flowers. He found the flowers extremely fragrant (really, what I wouldn't give to smell jasmine right now!) and what, he wondered, was more fragrant - the flowers in his garden or his queen's dark hair? Yes, dear readers, this was the thought that plagued the king's mind day and night.
Now, for the verse in question, the one addressed to a bee that Siva supposedly wrote (stolen from the book mentioned above):
You, who spend your life in flight,
seeking a hidden sweetness:
don't tell me what I want to hear,
tell me what you really see.
I love a woman, love everything
about her - the way she walks,
just like a peacock; her teeth,
her long dark hair
more fragrant, I think, than any flower-
but only you can say.
Now, what exactly was the flaw in this verse?
Nakeerar claimed that the flaw was not in the phonology or the morphology but rather, it was a mistake in meaning. And what is the mistake, you ask? No woman has naturally fragrant hair: a woman's hair becomes fragrant only when she adorns it with flowers!
Siva asks Nakeerar whether this is true of the dancing girls of Indra's world and then Goddess he worships. Nakkerar replies in the affirmative and that is when Siva gives up and opens his third eye.
The story doesn't end there, it goes on to talk about Nakeerar's transformation - he comes out of the Golden Lotus tank and relearns the Tamil alphabet from Lord Murugan and goes on to compose some great poetry. Thus the story is not really about Nakeerar standing up to the Lord as I was made to believe, it is about how old Nakeerar, so buried in the conventional structure and forms of poetry could not see the beauty of the verse that was presented to him, it is about how even the greatest of poets needs to be open and show a little more humility, it is about how a great jugde of poetry needs to go back to the alphabets once in a while. One could go on but you see my point. By making the 'netrikkan' one-liner the story, we seem to be missing the whole point and are going into some random tangent about how Nakeerar stood up for what he believed in.
I must say here that yes, I am aware that there's another common way of looking at this story. This has Nakeerar as a stubborn idiot who dared to argue against the Lord and the Lord taught him a lesson. The lesson for us: never go against the Lord's wishes. This is usually how the super religious Tams teach their kids to see the story while my Dad, whose agnosticism I inherited, taught me the exact opposite. Needless to say, this religious view is even worse off than the other - it elevates the God figure and trivializes everything else.
The way I look at it, it does not matter whether Siva wrote it or Tarumi wrote it, it is the verse that's important. It does not matter whether Nakeerar argued against Siva or Tarumi, it is just that he wasn't able to appreciate the beauty of it. It does not matter that the verse was about something as trivial as a woman's koondhal, it is in the trivial that beauty can often be found.
The Kannagi post has gotten me thinking of Tamil role models. Hero worship is not exactly unknown in our part of the world and methinks that there is some potential for a series on people (real or fictional) that we choose to put on pedestals. [While I think that hero figures in other parts of the world are also worth looking into, we Tams do seem to have some kind of talent for finding some really interesting(okay, weird) characters.] We could call this series From Kannagi to Rajinikanth or something as inane as that. To kickstart, let me do a post on one of the Tamland's most revered Sangam age poets - Nakeerar.
Every Tamil kid worth her salt is taught early about Nakkerar and his quarrel with Siva. "Netrikkan thirappinum kutram kutrame" (A mistake is a mistake is a mistake. Not really. Its more like even if you open the third eye, a mistake is still a mistake.) has to be one of the most often quoted lines in any Tamil home. Well, at least it was the case in my home where this quote used to make its appearance in every one of my parents' tiffs. The six year old I was, I thought that Nakeerar was this thatha I hadn't met yet who would one day magically appear before me and open his third eye and scorch all my enemies. My parents were very embarrased when they discovered that not only was I reciting this very false story to all and sundry but I was also explaning in great detail how this thatha's third eye story applied to what my parents were fighting about. So they sat me down and proceeded to tell me what I thought for the longest time was the real story of poet Nakeerar.
Nakeerar is the head of the Sangam that judged poetry in Madurai, the capital of Pandya country. One day the Pandya king announces that he would reward any poet who composes a verse that expressed the king's secret thought. Tarumi, a poor brahmin (played to perfection by Nagesh(Ravages tells me) in the movie Thirvilayadal) wants to get married but he doesn't have the money. So he goes and prays to Lord Siva and asks him to compose a poem. Siva, feeling all sorry for the brahmin, composes a poem and gives it to him. Tarumi runs all the way to the Academy and recites the poem. The king hears the verse and is very happy as it beautifully expresses what he had in the inner reaches of his mind. He is about to give Tarumi the reward when Nakeerar stops him and claims that there is a flaw in the verse. Poor Tarumi runs to Siva and shouts at the Lord for giving him a flawed poem. Siva gets all angry, emerges out of the lingam in the form of a poet and puts in an appearance at the Academy. He wants to know about the flaw in his verse. Nakeerar tells him. Siva doesn't agree and gets even more angry. His third eye opens slightly and Nakeerar realizes that the poet is none other than Siva and that if the third eye is fully open, he (Nakeerar) will be scorched to the ground. But he remains firm and tells Siva that "Netrikkan thirappinum kutram kutrame"! By now, the third eye is fully open and Nakeerar has to run to the Theppakulam (The Golden Lotus tank outside the Meenakshi temple apparently) and hide there but what happens after he scorns Siva is all supposedly besides the point. The point is that this poet stood up to the Lord himself and told him that he was dead wrong. This, all Tam parents feel is very much worth emulating and thus we Tam kids get to hear a lot about Nakeerar. We are told that we should be like Nakeerar and should stand up for what we believe, for what is true and just no matter what the consequences. We are shown plays and movies of Nakeerar at every available opportunity. [Aside: Growing up, there was even a popular Tamil magazine called Nakeeran which my Dad used to read diligently. It did a lot of investigative reporting and exposed scandals all over the place. I remember the editor 'Nakeeran' Gopal was in prison for sometime under POTA - this man published in-person interviews with sandalwood smuggler Veerappan and LTTE supremo Prabhakaran among others if I remember correctly. Anyone know if the magazine is still around?]
So anyway, what's wrong with the Nakeerar story? Nothing really. Just that I had always thought that Nakeerar and Siva were fighting about some complicated poetry structure which I wouldn't be able to understand. And then I find out that that is not at the case at all. I find out that while what I have heard about Nakerrar is true, its not the entire story. The real story is actually extremely funny and much more interesting. I did not discover it until a couple of years ago when I happened to find the controversial verses in an after-essay in A Poem at the Right Moment - Remembered Verses from Premodern South India. So what had I missed before?
Remember the thought that the Pandya king had in mind? It apparently came to him while he was in the royal garden smelling flowers. He found the flowers extremely fragrant (really, what I wouldn't give to smell jasmine right now!) and what, he wondered, was more fragrant - the flowers in his garden or his queen's dark hair? Yes, dear readers, this was the thought that plagued the king's mind day and night.
Now, for the verse in question, the one addressed to a bee that Siva supposedly wrote (stolen from the book mentioned above):
You, who spend your life in flight,
seeking a hidden sweetness:
don't tell me what I want to hear,
tell me what you really see.
I love a woman, love everything
about her - the way she walks,
just like a peacock; her teeth,
her long dark hair
more fragrant, I think, than any flower-
but only you can say.
Now, what exactly was the flaw in this verse?
Nakeerar claimed that the flaw was not in the phonology or the morphology but rather, it was a mistake in meaning. And what is the mistake, you ask? No woman has naturally fragrant hair: a woman's hair becomes fragrant only when she adorns it with flowers!
Siva asks Nakeerar whether this is true of the dancing girls of Indra's world and then Goddess he worships. Nakkerar replies in the affirmative and that is when Siva gives up and opens his third eye.
The story doesn't end there, it goes on to talk about Nakeerar's transformation - he comes out of the Golden Lotus tank and relearns the Tamil alphabet from Lord Murugan and goes on to compose some great poetry. Thus the story is not really about Nakeerar standing up to the Lord as I was made to believe, it is about how old Nakeerar, so buried in the conventional structure and forms of poetry could not see the beauty of the verse that was presented to him, it is about how even the greatest of poets needs to be open and show a little more humility, it is about how a great jugde of poetry needs to go back to the alphabets once in a while. One could go on but you see my point. By making the 'netrikkan' one-liner the story, we seem to be missing the whole point and are going into some random tangent about how Nakeerar stood up for what he believed in.
I must say here that yes, I am aware that there's another common way of looking at this story. This has Nakeerar as a stubborn idiot who dared to argue against the Lord and the Lord taught him a lesson. The lesson for us: never go against the Lord's wishes. This is usually how the super religious Tams teach their kids to see the story while my Dad, whose agnosticism I inherited, taught me the exact opposite. Needless to say, this religious view is even worse off than the other - it elevates the God figure and trivializes everything else.
The way I look at it, it does not matter whether Siva wrote it or Tarumi wrote it, it is the verse that's important. It does not matter whether Nakeerar argued against Siva or Tarumi, it is just that he wasn't able to appreciate the beauty of it. It does not matter that the verse was about something as trivial as a woman's koondhal, it is in the trivial that beauty can often be found.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Reservations? Bring it on...
I sat down to write one long, rambling post on the whole reservation comedy. Ended up writing one too but towards the end, I lost all enthusiasm for fighting with people. I hate confrontations anyway :) So that post ain't going to see the light of the day. Instead, here's an idea that will win hearts and minds. The only people who will oppose this policy will be IIT alumni but since their arguments will be completely colored by a deep shade of green, we can completely disregard them.
IITB batch of 2001, Bill tells me, had 27 women. Not surprisingly, he is not sure exactly how many men were there and gives me an approximate figure of 400. That is about 1 in 20. (Hang on, 1 in 43 apparently if you count just his CS batch.) Women account for about 48% of the Indian population (2% killed off and all that jazz). There is no question about the discrimination meted out to women through the centuries; no question that this discrimination pervades every section of society today. There is also no question that these women need to be given the right opportunities that would enable them to join the mainstream. That after 60 years of independence, we have only 5% of women in our top institutions of learning is a crying shame. (WTH is a crying shame btw?)
So, ladies and gentlemen, here's our new women empowerment policy - 45% of seats in all IITs reserved for women. For those of you who don't like the idea of reservations, lets call this affirmative action and we will add an extra x points to the JEE score so that these talented women will make the cut.
I can't even begin to talk about the advantages of such a policy. Just think about the diversity that these women will bring to an IIT campus. They will actually have more women than leopards in their campus, just think about it! Can you think of a more enriching experience for the depraved men of the IITs? The cream of our country will finally learn that there are such things as social skills, and showers. Next time they see a woman on the street, they will know that it isn't some strange extraterrestrial being that you keep gawking at but something as normal as the girl next to you in Machines class.
In case you are wondering that the advantages are all on one side, here are some benefits to the women - think of the improvement in self-esteem when they see all this attention they get which they would never have gotten if they didn't go to an IIT. As for the women who would get in without reservations, now that the proportions are not so much in their favor, they will actually start doing their own homeworks instead of getting the men to do it for them. And that as you all know will only help them in the long run.
I could keep going on. There are no downsides to this policy. The brand value argument doesn't hold - the drop in value is being more than balanced. When the men graduate from IIT and start working, they will actually do some work instead of spending hours leching at the receptionist. What more value can one ask for?
If you are still unconvinced, lets put this through a ballot. All current students of the IITs are eligible to vote - they get to choose between no reservation and 45% reservation for women. There's no question what they will choose. The only debate will be about the weightage given to good looking women. What say?
IITB batch of 2001, Bill tells me, had 27 women. Not surprisingly, he is not sure exactly how many men were there and gives me an approximate figure of 400. That is about 1 in 20. (Hang on, 1 in 43 apparently if you count just his CS batch.) Women account for about 48% of the Indian population (2% killed off and all that jazz). There is no question about the discrimination meted out to women through the centuries; no question that this discrimination pervades every section of society today. There is also no question that these women need to be given the right opportunities that would enable them to join the mainstream. That after 60 years of independence, we have only 5% of women in our top institutions of learning is a crying shame. (WTH is a crying shame btw?)
So, ladies and gentlemen, here's our new women empowerment policy - 45% of seats in all IITs reserved for women. For those of you who don't like the idea of reservations, lets call this affirmative action and we will add an extra x points to the JEE score so that these talented women will make the cut.
I can't even begin to talk about the advantages of such a policy. Just think about the diversity that these women will bring to an IIT campus. They will actually have more women than leopards in their campus, just think about it! Can you think of a more enriching experience for the depraved men of the IITs? The cream of our country will finally learn that there are such things as social skills, and showers. Next time they see a woman on the street, they will know that it isn't some strange extraterrestrial being that you keep gawking at but something as normal as the girl next to you in Machines class.
In case you are wondering that the advantages are all on one side, here are some benefits to the women - think of the improvement in self-esteem when they see all this attention they get which they would never have gotten if they didn't go to an IIT. As for the women who would get in without reservations, now that the proportions are not so much in their favor, they will actually start doing their own homeworks instead of getting the men to do it for them. And that as you all know will only help them in the long run.
I could keep going on. There are no downsides to this policy. The brand value argument doesn't hold - the drop in value is being more than balanced. When the men graduate from IIT and start working, they will actually do some work instead of spending hours leching at the receptionist. What more value can one ask for?
If you are still unconvinced, lets put this through a ballot. All current students of the IITs are eligible to vote - they get to choose between no reservation and 45% reservation for women. There's no question what they will choose. The only debate will be about the weightage given to good looking women. What say?
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Inheriting the World
The Booker Prize has been announced months ago, but as Falstaff reminds me here, the Mela continues.
Falstaff reviews James Meek's The People's Act of Love
Falstaff reviews James Meek's The People's Act of Love
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Fresh Air
If you, like me, felt claustrophobic the past few days, here's some fresh air:
Falstaff, true to type, makes a well-reasoned argument against reservations. With solutions. How I wish he had done this before and spared us that incoherent rant.
Dilip, here and here makes a case for.
Abi has some interesting links here.
Falstaff, true to type, makes a well-reasoned argument against reservations. With solutions. How I wish he had done this before and spared us that incoherent rant.
Dilip, here and here makes a case for.
Abi has some interesting links here.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Amma in God's own country
No, no, not the hugging one. The one from Poes Garden. AIADMK is apparently contesting 54 assembly seats in Kerala in the upcoming elections. Amma has figured that she has "huge support" from the state and believes that this is the first step to making AIADMK a national party.
How did she garner this "huge support", you ask?
"A baby elephant that Jayalalitha gifted to the famous Guruvayoor temple after her party won the 2001 assembly elections has also helped sway the state's sentiment in AIADMK's favour, Rajapandian said."
Elephants are the way to go, yes. Next time you want to get people to vote for you, buy them an elephant. Hang on, that's two actually. The baby and the amma.
Now for the maifesto:
1. Make Munnar a world-class holiday resort. Of course these Keralites know nothing about world-class resorts. Look at us - we have managed to put so many amma cutouts in Mahabalipuram that the tourists cannot get enough of it. We will do the same in every tea estate in Munnar.
2. Upgrade Vizhijam port. Remember Sethusamudram, anyone?
3. Promote Kathakali and Kalaripayattu as national art forms. Yeah right. They will soon attain the same status as Karagattam.
4. Free bicycles to all kids to enable them to go to school. Huh? You have to bribe to get the parents to send their kids to school in Kerala? Since when?
5. Set up women's self-help groups everywhere. The women of Kerala will now be empowered. Like their counterparts across the border, they will soon have the power to fall at amma's feet 3007 times a day.
6. Bring development that will stop the exodus of Mallus to Gelf. Muahahaha.
How did she garner this "huge support", you ask?
"A baby elephant that Jayalalitha gifted to the famous Guruvayoor temple after her party won the 2001 assembly elections has also helped sway the state's sentiment in AIADMK's favour, Rajapandian said."
Elephants are the way to go, yes. Next time you want to get people to vote for you, buy them an elephant. Hang on, that's two actually. The baby and the amma.
Now for the maifesto:
1. Make Munnar a world-class holiday resort. Of course these Keralites know nothing about world-class resorts. Look at us - we have managed to put so many amma cutouts in Mahabalipuram that the tourists cannot get enough of it. We will do the same in every tea estate in Munnar.
2. Upgrade Vizhijam port. Remember Sethusamudram, anyone?
3. Promote Kathakali and Kalaripayattu as national art forms. Yeah right. They will soon attain the same status as Karagattam.
4. Free bicycles to all kids to enable them to go to school. Huh? You have to bribe to get the parents to send their kids to school in Kerala? Since when?
5. Set up women's self-help groups everywhere. The women of Kerala will now be empowered. Like their counterparts across the border, they will soon have the power to fall at amma's feet 3007 times a day.
6. Bring development that will stop the exodus of Mallus to Gelf. Muahahaha.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Of lungis, books and everything in between
While the millions that make the world's economy throb with the pulse of consumerism are busy eating their potato chips sitting on their couches and flipping through their 12,500 channels on their 175-inch HD plasma flatscreen TV with direct satellite link and tivo, I sink into my recliner and flip the pages of some yellowing book printed in the pulp age. While the modern viewer gets ads and product placements flung at her at the rate of one every three seconds, I take two to three hours to plod through a whodunit to finally figure out, oh the butler did it.
The printed word is fast going the way of the dodo. Rumor has it that Governor Schwarzenegger is pushing for a bill in the People's Republic to protect all remaining books as historic artifacts. Export of all books will be prohibited with the possible exception of the Holy Bible, copies of which are eagerly awaited by villagers in Somalia and Niger. The grapevine also has it that the Discovery Channel is about to declare the bookworm an endangered species.
Like it? How about this one?
Back to the train. So the train would merrily wend its way through the wastelands of the Bombay suburbia and halt for its next mouthful of passengers at Kalyan. Typically some Mallu family, let's call them the Geevargheses (the Geevarghese?), would board the compartment and occupy the other three berths in the sleeper-class booth of six we were in. Heaving the luggage on board and lugging an offspring each, our mythical friends Baby and Blessy Geevarghese would battle their way to their seats and stow their luggage and offspring appropriately. Baby would be fastidiously padlocking the luggage to the chains under the seat when the train would start with a jerk, and Blessy would promptly interrupt him with, "Babychaya, veettil cupboardu poottiyo?" Did you lock the cupboard at home?
Being a man of the world, Baby would summon all confidence, flash his brightest back-from-the-Gelf smile that had won Blessy's heart five years ago, and say, "Of course Blessykutty. Nothing to worry." After which my father would catch his eye, and they would both exchange an understanding glance and a silent nod as if to say, "You too, my friend?" In that instant they would have formed a bond between them that would be much stronger than any bond their wives could form by gossipping about common acquaintances till the Geevargheses alighted at Alwaye 40 hours later. Needless to say, a strict code of silence was always followed among men regarding these assurances of security of cupboards and balconies given to women. In Mallu it was called omerta.
Not rolling on the floor yet? Check this one out:
Not many have read that obscure chapter from one of our great Hindu epics that describes how the lungi was born. In the days of yore, men of India dressed in the purity of white and the soberness of subdued colors, much like men of the Western world do today. Bright colors were for the womenfolk. The lungi was fortutiously designed by the third of five brothers, who was roaming the land in search of adventure thousands of years ago (so the epic goes). One evening he rested for a while on a river bank, when what should catch his eye but three sarees folded neatly and placed on a rock. "Aha, abandoned clothes," he thought. Little did it occur to him that they might belong to three hapless damsels who were bathing in the river. The onset of twilight had probably obscured any visual clues to that fact. Had he known that, his upright moral values would have kept him from changing the course of fashion history. But as it happens, he tucked the three sarees under his armpit and trudged home. All three were brightly colored. Perhaps they were purple, orange and green; or one of them might have been bright yellow or red, and a couple of them may have had a floral pattern. You get the idea.
The three bathing damsels came out of the water and were shocked to discover the loss of their garments. Reluctant to trust their modesty to the cover of darkness on their way home, they prayed in unison to Lord Krishna. Promptly coming to the rescue, he blessed them with the gift of the garb. (Astute readers are no doubt noting that this was not the only instance in Hindu mythology when Lord Krishna has imparted this gift to women in distress.)
Yeah, okay, click here, here and here to read all.
It is with great pleasure that I announce to you diligent reader, that Anoop Iyer, fellow traveler and bestest friend is back on the blogging scene. Here's to another blog that cannot be missed. Cheers.
The printed word is fast going the way of the dodo. Rumor has it that Governor Schwarzenegger is pushing for a bill in the People's Republic to protect all remaining books as historic artifacts. Export of all books will be prohibited with the possible exception of the Holy Bible, copies of which are eagerly awaited by villagers in Somalia and Niger. The grapevine also has it that the Discovery Channel is about to declare the bookworm an endangered species.
Like it? How about this one?
Back to the train. So the train would merrily wend its way through the wastelands of the Bombay suburbia and halt for its next mouthful of passengers at Kalyan. Typically some Mallu family, let's call them the Geevargheses (the Geevarghese?), would board the compartment and occupy the other three berths in the sleeper-class booth of six we were in. Heaving the luggage on board and lugging an offspring each, our mythical friends Baby and Blessy Geevarghese would battle their way to their seats and stow their luggage and offspring appropriately. Baby would be fastidiously padlocking the luggage to the chains under the seat when the train would start with a jerk, and Blessy would promptly interrupt him with, "Babychaya, veettil cupboardu poottiyo?" Did you lock the cupboard at home?
Being a man of the world, Baby would summon all confidence, flash his brightest back-from-the-Gelf smile that had won Blessy's heart five years ago, and say, "Of course Blessykutty. Nothing to worry." After which my father would catch his eye, and they would both exchange an understanding glance and a silent nod as if to say, "You too, my friend?" In that instant they would have formed a bond between them that would be much stronger than any bond their wives could form by gossipping about common acquaintances till the Geevargheses alighted at Alwaye 40 hours later. Needless to say, a strict code of silence was always followed among men regarding these assurances of security of cupboards and balconies given to women. In Mallu it was called omerta.
Not rolling on the floor yet? Check this one out:
Not many have read that obscure chapter from one of our great Hindu epics that describes how the lungi was born. In the days of yore, men of India dressed in the purity of white and the soberness of subdued colors, much like men of the Western world do today. Bright colors were for the womenfolk. The lungi was fortutiously designed by the third of five brothers, who was roaming the land in search of adventure thousands of years ago (so the epic goes). One evening he rested for a while on a river bank, when what should catch his eye but three sarees folded neatly and placed on a rock. "Aha, abandoned clothes," he thought. Little did it occur to him that they might belong to three hapless damsels who were bathing in the river. The onset of twilight had probably obscured any visual clues to that fact. Had he known that, his upright moral values would have kept him from changing the course of fashion history. But as it happens, he tucked the three sarees under his armpit and trudged home. All three were brightly colored. Perhaps they were purple, orange and green; or one of them might have been bright yellow or red, and a couple of them may have had a floral pattern. You get the idea.
The three bathing damsels came out of the water and were shocked to discover the loss of their garments. Reluctant to trust their modesty to the cover of darkness on their way home, they prayed in unison to Lord Krishna. Promptly coming to the rescue, he blessed them with the gift of the garb. (Astute readers are no doubt noting that this was not the only instance in Hindu mythology when Lord Krishna has imparted this gift to women in distress.)
Yeah, okay, click here, here and here to read all.
It is with great pleasure that I announce to you diligent reader, that Anoop Iyer, fellow traveler and bestest friend is back on the blogging scene. Here's to another blog that cannot be missed. Cheers.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Seen on that TV thingy in the elevator this morning
President Bush will be in Charlotte, NC later today to address the fight against terrorism.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Have you hugged your grad student today?
"M took Sandy to Miami last weekend. She didn't know anything about it. He just came home and told her to pack and get to the airport."
"Thats nice. Was it her b'day?"
"B'day? Of course not. So like you not to know anything about this."
"What?"
"And A, you remember A? She threw this huge surprise party for Banker yesterday."
"You guys had fun?"
"Yes, until someone reminded me that I was the only one who doesn't get appreciated."
"You don't get what?"
"Appreciated. Actually I've got news for you. People do appreciate me. BM called and wished me and stuff. She said she was glad to have me as her friend."
"Good for you. Now tell me what this is all about."
"And you don't even pay for one lousy dinner. Monday night at Geja's I thought you would pay."
"You want me to pay for your dinner now?"
"That's the least you could do. Show some appreciation. If nothing else, I do your laundry when I am there, don't I?"
"Okay, I appreciate you. Will that do?"
"NO! No point talking to you. I gotta go now. I am going to meet Jorge. He will understand."
"Jorge who?"
"That phd comics dude. He is in CMU today for a book signing as part of this appreciation week."
"What week?"
"It took you like 5 days to ask me that? Grad student appreciation week. What did you think it was?"
"There's a grad student appreciation week?"
"Of course there is. We need appreciation."
"That you most definitely do. And I have no reason to believe you won't appreciate. As I keep telling you, you are a long term investment."
"Yeah, go make me one of your mutual funds now. Next you will have a morningstar rating for me. Anyway, that's all you care about. The only time you were nice to me last week was when you discovered that you were going to get more money back if we do married, filing jointly."
"No, I always knew it. It was the only thing on the benefit side of my cost benefit analysis for marriage."
"What about laundry? And all those darn dishes you make me wash everytime I am there?"
"Okay, that too. Is there a domestic help appreciation week?"
"Very funny."
"Okay don't be mad. I am sorry. I didn't know about this appreciation week. Now that I know, I will make sure you feel appreciated."
"Yeah?"
"Of course. I am not that mean also?"
"Really?"
"Yeah?"
"So what will you do?"
"Well..I will go and buy the pinkest, sappiest Hallmark card that says that you are the bestest grad student I have ever known and send it over."
"Aaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh."
"Thats nice. Was it her b'day?"
"B'day? Of course not. So like you not to know anything about this."
"What?"
"And A, you remember A? She threw this huge surprise party for Banker yesterday."
"You guys had fun?"
"Yes, until someone reminded me that I was the only one who doesn't get appreciated."
"You don't get what?"
"Appreciated. Actually I've got news for you. People do appreciate me. BM called and wished me and stuff. She said she was glad to have me as her friend."
"Good for you. Now tell me what this is all about."
"And you don't even pay for one lousy dinner. Monday night at Geja's I thought you would pay."
"You want me to pay for your dinner now?"
"That's the least you could do. Show some appreciation. If nothing else, I do your laundry when I am there, don't I?"
"Okay, I appreciate you. Will that do?"
"NO! No point talking to you. I gotta go now. I am going to meet Jorge. He will understand."
"Jorge who?"
"That phd comics dude. He is in CMU today for a book signing as part of this appreciation week."
"What week?"
"It took you like 5 days to ask me that? Grad student appreciation week. What did you think it was?"
"There's a grad student appreciation week?"
"Of course there is. We need appreciation."
"That you most definitely do. And I have no reason to believe you won't appreciate. As I keep telling you, you are a long term investment."
"Yeah, go make me one of your mutual funds now. Next you will have a morningstar rating for me. Anyway, that's all you care about. The only time you were nice to me last week was when you discovered that you were going to get more money back if we do married, filing jointly."
"No, I always knew it. It was the only thing on the benefit side of my cost benefit analysis for marriage."
"What about laundry? And all those darn dishes you make me wash everytime I am there?"
"Okay, that too. Is there a domestic help appreciation week?"
"Very funny."
"Okay don't be mad. I am sorry. I didn't know about this appreciation week. Now that I know, I will make sure you feel appreciated."
"Yeah?"
"Of course. I am not that mean also?"
"Really?"
"Yeah?"
"So what will you do?"
"Well..I will go and buy the pinkest, sappiest Hallmark card that says that you are the bestest grad student I have ever known and send it over."
"Aaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
