Chimerical Cafe

Distinctly M.I.A., but not

2009-08-01T04:25:00.000-07:00

Ahem. I'm feeling a sudden urge to air a point of frustration. A question, really.

By now, anyone who has paid even the faintest attention to pop music has a pretty good idea of what M.I.A. sounds like. Her vocal stylings are unmistakable. She has a slick lip and a pitch-playful cadence that our ears register immediately.

So what the hell does Lady Gaga think she's doing in Wale's new song "Chillin'"? After listening to the song twice (admittedly not very carefully), I was shocked to learn that it was Lady Gaga's voice I was hearing and not M.I.A.'s. Lady Gaga somehow managed to lift M.I.A.'s signature vocal idiom right out of her throat without even attempting to personalize it. It's just straight M.I.A. Except that it's not.

To confuse matters further, Wale references M.I.A. in the song twice, first naming her in a pun and then pulling a line from "Paper Planes." Coincidence? I doubt it.

Food, Inc.

2009-06-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

There's a new documentary film out about industrial agriculture called Food, Inc. If you have the opportunity to see it, I urge you to do so. Thanks to my roommate who works at the Pesticide Action Network of North America (PANNA), I attended an advance screening of it in San Francisco.

Yes, it's another one of those make-your-stomach-turn documentaries that relies on shock and awe. But it conveys its message beautifully, and we might as well be shocked. What I appreciate most about Food, Inc. is that it addresses the social justice side of food (never mind that the audience in my screening was, in the words of Van Jones, "lily white"). It doesn't blame low-income consumers who can't buy their way out of the ugly web of industrial agriculture or even on farmers who are so often beholden to corporate headquarters.

The question that remains in my heart is what we do now. We know that our present food system is hopelessly broken. Without a doubt, the highest burden is on those who hold the least power in society: immigrants, small farmers, and low-income urban communities. Yet these are the same people who have the least clout in the halls of power. They certainly aren't the ones paying full-time lobbyists to protect their interests. I suspect they'd do a better job than our current leaders in paving a more humane path from the crop to the kitchen table.

Sigh. Power to the people. Love, too.

A Hunger for Action

2009-06-25T10:54:00.000-07:00

It’s a clear morning in May, and the lobbyists mushrooming on the State Capitol lawn are feeling lucky. Today is Hunger Action Day, an annual event organized by the California Hunger Action Coalition. From all across the state, anti-hunger advocates are converging in Sacramento to speak on behalf of over 5 million Californians who are hungry or who live on the brink of hunger.

For this, I have been awake since a bleary-eyed hour of morning that the sun refuses to dignify with its presence. I arrive in Sacramento mid-morning with a motley crew of advocates from the San Francisco Bay Area. Our group consists of staff and volunteers from the Alameda County Food Bank, the Senior Advocates for Hope and Justice from St. Mary’s Center in West Oakland, high school students from San Leandro, and a smattering of miscellaneous joiners. Our charter bus is the umpteenth to release its travelers face-first into the balmy air. Our uniform, for the half of us who bothered to wear it, is a bright orange t-shirt. (“Orange you gonna do something about hunger?”) We tote paper folders whose contents detail our legislative agenda and instruct us in the art of advocacy.

The first order of the day is a rally. Our group proceeds to an assemblage of folding chairs beneath an expansive white tent. The tent occupies prime real estate on the grassy lawn: it faces the steps of the State Capitol, which serve as our makeshift stage. Nearby, similarly outfitted groups tout their causes: “Say No to Stroke,” “You’re the Cure,” “Action on Water NOW!”

After an opening speaker, the rally is off to a slow start. Our counterparts representing other chunks of the state map are slowly trickling in. To pass the minutes between speakers and cheers, I take inventory of my neighbors. There are the kids from San Leandro high school (not San Diego High School, as they indignantly point out to those who mistake them for a nonexistent SoCal delegation). The girls wear their hair long and their jeans skinny. I recall an old pair of boot-cut jeans and try not to imagine how long it’s been since I was in high school.

I catch a glimpse of a man at the other end of the tent. He wears glasses, arm tattoos, and a beard. His skin is slightly weathered, but his smile makes him youthful. I’ve seen him before, but I can’t remember where. “I knew you right away!” he says brightly when I approach him to bashfully admit that I can’t place him. His name is Paul, and he’s here with a group from St. Anthony’s Foundation in San Francisco, where I used to volunteer. The mystery is solved: I used to banter with him and the other boys in the steam-soaked scullery while wiping down tables and collecting bucketfuls of dirty dishes. “Come back sometime,” he tells me. “Even if it’s just once a month.” His invitation is so warm and full of gladness. I can hardly believe I’m so memorable.

Later that morning, Betsy Edwards from the Alameda County Food Bank kicks off the presentation of Hunger Fighter Awards. Each person recognized is invited to speak, and each tells a story that inspires me. One is a woman who used to receive food stamps. Now she serves as an Americorps volunteer at Lifelong Medical Clinic. Another is a community gardener-turned-farmer who sells the most affordable organic produce you can find in Los Angeles. He expresses disappointment that the government so often fails its people, but he lights up when he begins to enumerate the possibilities for community-based action. His voice rises, ignited. Let me show you what the people can do, says the fierceness of his tenor.

For me, it’s a young Asian-American Hunger Fighter from the Central Valley who steals the show. She speaks with an accent like my father’s, and her story swells my heart with awe. As a refugee on the Thai-Cambodian border, she and her family experienced the harsh reality of hunger. Once they immigrated to the United States, they started receiving food stamp benefits. At last! she thought. Never will my family face hunger again. Her troubles were finally over – or so it seemed until her father fell ill with a chronic health condition that eventually took his life. Her mother was diagnosed with diabetes. It became evident to the young woman that her family couldn’t afford the quality of food they needed to sustain their health. Today she works as a community health advocate in Fresno, California’s poorest county, where she has established a food assistance hotline. She pays special attention to issues of cultural sensitivity.

At the end of the presentation of the Hunger Fighter Awards, we break for bag lunches. Afterwards, the busload of Bay Area advocates breaks into teams to tackle legislative offices. My team has been assigned the office of Joan Buchanan, a member of the State Assembly representing San Ramon. During the office visit, seniors from St. Mary’s Center take turns speaking about food stamps and budget cuts, issues that often translate into real-life choices between necessities: food or utilities, meds or the phone bill. I corroborate their stories with my experience as a case management intern at St. Mary’s Center. Many of the seniors I work with receive disability benefits and depend on their meager monthly checks to survive; cuts would be devastating. Phillis Beltran, the Community Center Supervisor at St. Mary’s Center, speaks more generally about St. Mary’s Center and the Senior Advocates for Hope and Justice. She speaks with an openheartedness that seems to affect our audience, a single member of the staff of Assemblymember Buchanan’s office.

The staff person’s name is Dawn Adler. She used to be a social worker for children with sickle cell anemia. She wears a bright pink button-up shirt tucked beneath a gray suit jacket and thick-rimmed brown glasses. As the seniors who have come from St. Mary’s Center share their stories, she listens with calm professionalism. I watch her with curiosity, attempting to read the reactions written in her face. I wonder what it’s like to be on her side of the desk. I suspect she may be listening better than I would if I were in her position, receiving groups of constituents all day long. I wonder if, like me, she feels helpless sometimes. At one point, she tells us there’s only so much her office can do. It occurs to me that helplessness might be an illusion, an excuse to justify the iniquities of the society we live in. I wonder if part of the reason we’re here today is to blow all excuses apart.

Our visit is brief, twenty minutes quickly spent. We leave a folder of legislative recommendations for Assemblymember Buchanan. I forget to hand over an orange tucked in my messenger bag, a token from the California Hunger Action Coalition on the theme of “Orange you gonna do something about hunger?”

Boarding the bus back to the Bay Area, I feel a sense of relief. I don’t know whether it’s the sunshine or the stories I’ve heard that have healed me, but a hot-blooded hopefulness is coursing through my veins. We came for such a simple, unassuming reason: to speak our truth, and to claim that it matters. Maybe our visit today won’t make a damn bit of difference, and maybe it will. The only thing that’s certain is that our work is far from over.

I close my eyes and allow my mind to rewind through the events of the day. Somewhere in the capital of California, impassioned voices are echoing still in halls of power.

Relevantly Rumi

2009-06-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

Because so few of us have time to actually contribute lengthy posts and due to the popularity of mini-posts a la Twitter and F'book status updates, I thought I would share this morsel of wisdom from Rumi. All of us are in a transitional phase of our lives in some way or another. Hence, this quote is particulary relevant as we try to figure out where to go from here and how to make the "here" and now a little bit more bearable if we don't have the luxury of going elsewhere.

"Let the beauty of what you love be what you do." - Jalal ud-Din Rum

Sita Sings the Blues

2009-05-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

I'm watching Sita Sings the Blues, an animated film by Nina Paley. It's been DVR'd ever since the March television premier on PBS. And on this breezy, slightly overcast Sunday evening, I've finally gotten around to watching it. Hurray!

The quirky animated film is Paley's interpretation of the great Hindu epic, the Ramayana. The story of the epic is seamlessly accompanied by the 1920's jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw and a modern fusion desi music. I have to say that the film is a wonderful feast for the eyes (the animation is so CUTE), remarkably humorous and also very touching. Paley uses the halting (yet fluidly humorous) storytelling of three shadow puppets (Paley's friends I presume) to narrate the story of the Ramayana. THIS is a highlight of the film and very enjoyable for a variety of reasons, among which is the candid commentary and divergent analysis of the shadow puppets. They engage viewers by cultivating an atmosphere of an intimate gathering of friends, replete with humor and vacillating discussion. The scenes illustrating the story of the Ramayana are intermingled with a parallel (and very personal) storyline that divulges the dissolution of Paley's own marriage, hence the tagline "the greatest break-up story every told." I'm not sure to what extent the film may be deemed sacrilegious by Hindus, but I thoroughly enjoyed it for some reasons beyond the accomplishment of excellent execution. First, because it is always a courageous feat for an artist to interpret and adapt a sacred cultural text outside of her own background. Second, because Paley lays out her personal connection to the story. Third, its brings forth the topic of cultural canons.

As Americans try to engage and understand the rest of the world, there is no better way of doing this than simultaneously attempting to learn more about the cultural canons of other nations and civilizations. We may not only learn a thing or two about other people, but ourselves too; Sita Sings the Blues demonstrates and encourages this kind of personalization in a good way. We can dispel the ignorance that may blur our own perspectives and also enhance our ability to empathize on many levels (individual, collective, etc) - if we do aim to be truly cosmopolitan people, this is a great way to do it.

Paley is bringing the Ramayana to a wider audience that will hopefully be intrigued enough to read more about Hindu epics and the faith itself. For that and more I really really appreciate and like this film.

You can attend a screening of a SSTB by checking on the website OR watch it online! check out the website: http://www.sitasingstheblues.com/

Next: Mother of the Believers

Musings from a lazy Saturday afternoon

2009-04-21T16:10:00.000-07:00

My person: a pool, a biodynamic system of critters and chlorophyll. Silent and reflective, all that glimmers is a glassy sheen. See the water-walking insects leaving indentations on the surface. It gives a whisper of way but never quite breaks.

Of you, I ask something more. Don't just admire the cold stillness of my surface. All you see is your own damn reflection, your prejudices and preconceptions and self-professed tolerance confirmed. Don't just look at me; look into me. Tear through the water's skin. Let yourself feel the slippery rocks, the warmth of moisture that indicates a life like yours and unlike yours.

The (Interfaith) Faith Council

2009-04-12T23:33:00.000-07:00

Many many heartfelt apologies for being the most delinquent member of this blog. Indeed, I have shirk'd. The last few months of crazy work weeks, instensive efforts to make friends, do good work, have fun - in short, live life - is culminating in what is going to be a profusion of prolific blog-writing for me. Just you wait, my friends. And I swear it's going to be meaningful. Some of it is going to be prosaic (muahaha). And other parts will just be plain ole fun.

Meanwhile, here's something that caught my eye at 2 AM and made me just a little bit happier about the events that are transpiring in our political capital. From the "On Faith" section of the Washington Post, a post from Eboo Patel.

The Faith Council Begins Its Work.

Excerpt:

It was exhilarating and exhausting at the same time. There was a palpable
sense that we live at a time of both profound possibility and also very real
peril. Just about everybody who spoke underscored two things: we need an
all-hands-on-deck approach, and there is no time to waste.

We've heard a lot about every other council and committee meeting, but here's one that has received very little attention in the media. Of course, the mainstream media doesn't really like to report on anything indicative of PROGRESS or cooperation, does it? In short, anything less than sensational and alarmists is simply not news-worthy these days. But this is important to me. And should be important to many others as well.

I would probably be just as ecstatic and optimistic as Eboo if I were on the faith council, trying forge some new paths toward greater awareness, understanding and religious pluralism. I don't ever remember hearing about a Faith Council during the Bush administration. Does anyone else? Like many other happy beginnings in the Obama administration (although we have yet to see the fruits of these efforts), l feel like the mere fact that these things are taking place - that people are being galvanized and re-energized into THINKING in more a optimistic, progressive and collaborative manner - is encouraging enough.

Listening: A Reflection

2009-04-01T13:55:00.001-07:00

Is it possible to listen selflessly? During my first month of work at my new volunteer placement, I witnessed someone who did. The man who came in that morning was a practiced victim, even if a well-deserving one. His answers to my colleague's questions were peppered with tearful anecdotes and self-pitying asides. "All my friends have abandoned me," he wailed at one point. Every muscle in my body retaliated with a collective clench. "Give me a break," jeered my mind's voice. But my colleague's facial expression remained soft, even as the fellow continued to wax poetic on a theme of Woe Is Me.

Never have I seen myself as a particularly thoughtful listener. I'm constantly fighting the urge to speak, to have a voice, to make my point and my mark on a conversation. Rarely has wholehearted listening been an act of surrender I've wanted to make (somewhat ironic for a lifelong musician, no?). But my colleague has unwittingly offered me inspiration and a challenge.

What will it take for me to change? Patience? Compassion? Humility? Some combination of the three? And what will it cost? Am I willing to let down my guard and allow another person's experiences to permeate my own? Call it trite, call it kindergarten, but for me, it's one of the hardest things I'll ever do.

Does the first time really hurt?

2009-03-10T22:45:00.000-07:00

The title of my blog post has absolutely NOTHING to do with what I'm going to write about. In my current job, I've quickly come to realize the power of a good headline to draw the reader in (evil laugh).

I've never been part of an "underground" movement, or blogged for that matter, so this is kind of exciting. For my first contribution to Chimerical Café, instead of responding to a cultural or political spark of some sort, I’d like to pay homage to Eclectic Swagger’s poetic daydreams; approval of colorful characters; unpretentious love of romance and dreamy prose; and of course, her total appreciation for my crazy mindless musings. I should warn you in advance that this is entirely TOO long for a blog post, but hey, I type FAST. Here goes…

Greetings, from Seattle, Washington, USA. Somewhere near the intersection of Queen Anne Avenue and Mercer Street, in the hip, bustling neighborhood of Lower Queen Anne, is a young, charmingly mysterious twenty-something male sitting at Café Ladro, drinking a piping hot double shot Yankee Dog, wearing a plaid button down with one sleeve rolled to the elbow, his fingers (making love) to a laptop covered in stickers of his favorite artwork, a box of cigarettes holding down his receipt. $3.25. The last four digits of his credit card number are 5683. He does not carry cash. He does however carry a spiral bound notebook, some mint flavored toothpicks and a very old movie ticket stub for the 3 p.m. screening of Vicky Cristina Barcelona at The Big Picture.

He took a young Cornish theatre student to that movie. They decided to make the afternoon show because she had tickets to a Massy Ferguson concert at the Vera Project that night. They are not together anymore, and we might never know why. She was a sophomore, too young to appreciate a good merlot, too old to wear Doc Martens, which she secretly did when picking up teriyaki from the place across her apartment or stretching canvasses in her basement. She was originally from Ellensburg, but came to Seattle to audition for a play about the sexual and emotional escapades of a Latvian immigrant at the underground Ballagan Theatre. She had lied to her mother, saying the audition was for The Lion King at the Paramount. Her mother had believed her. All she had wanted was the very best for her daughter.

The young boy at Café Ladro, now a bit jittery from the caffeine, does not know this, but a man in his late forties is sitting about two tables away, watching this boy send an instant message within nanoseconds of receiving one. This man is not in a good mood. He is in this trendy coffee shop because he senses the onset of a midlife crisis. He doesn’t love his wife; just her sweet pulled pork and mashed potatoes. He hates his job at the power plant, and wishes he could be a world scrabble champion or lead guitarist for a Beatles cover band. He used to run cross country for Oregon State, now he only runs to the mailbox and back, to pick up the monthly TV guide and REI coupons. He doesn’t understand why they call it a Yankee Dog, and not a Cup of Joe. He does not get why the boy has one sleeve rolled up, and not the other. He doesn’t understand why the boy does not carry cash. And he doesn’t understand why the boy broke up with his daughter.

Meanwhile, standing on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the café is a beautiful woman, half-Greek half-Irish. She says she’s 38, but is actually 47. She’s holding a blue umbrella to shield her new bangs from an annoying February shower. She was on her way to her car, parked a block away on Republican, but had to stop when she saw the young boy in the café window, still drinking his warm beverage, still typing. She could have recognized that plaid shirt anywhere. It was what he had worn on their first date in Chinatown, and what she had ripped off on their first night at his studio apartment. She knows she should keep walking, because the drive back home is a long one. But she stands frozen, drained, curious. He is much too young for her, and she now knows that. She sheds a tear, on the inside, but shakes it off right away. She wasn’t going to pull a Julia Roberts from across the street. After all, she was secretly hoping to run into him.

She jay walks across Roy Street, the lights of Counterbalance Park behind her creating more than a Hollywood moment. As she gets closer, the boy sees her, first her blue umbrella, then her face. She is wearing a big yellow scarf. He could recognize that scarf anywhere. It was what she had worn on a ferry ride with him to Bainbridge Island, and what she wore the night he asked if he could “draw her.” She had laughed at him, and his pathetic attempts to turn her on. Even so, it had worked.

He turns down his laptop screen as she walks in, and an odd reflex forces him to quickly put his cigarettes in his pocket, even though she knows he smokes. She walks right up to his table, and sits down across from him. She doesn’t say anything, instead taking a sip from his coffee in silence. He takes her hands, slowly, and looks at her. His eyes shamelessly trace the skin on her hands, the folds near her neck, the lines near her eyes. She grows uneasy. It has only been a few months since they last saw each other, but she knows that he notices how old she has gotten. She feels those big tears peer over her lower eyelids. She looks away, over his shoulder, and notices the man in his late forties staring at her. He is angry, confused. His blood pressure rises, from what he sees before his eyes and from years of sweet pulled pork. The man is her husband.

I am also in the café, looking at all of this unravel in silent contentment. I feel a little evil, a little guilty, a little sad. I quickly pen an ‘intermission,’ so I can get myself more coffee. The bearded man behind the counter asks if I’d like to make that a Yankee Dog. I politely decline. Part of me still feels sorry for the man who never made it to the World Scrabble Championships.

Listening Activism

2009-02-07T07:33:00.000-08:00

Has anyone noticed that The Economist has been in full-blown freak-out mode lately? The cover of the most recent issue nauseated me. It was an unhappy reminder that even those who pride themselves on high-quality reporting employ sensationalist methods when it comes to their own dogmas. Valid arguments aside, it just looks to me like another manifestation of the same old thing: people feel threatened, people bark noisily to defend their territory, and no one gets anywhere.

One of my deeply held suspicions is that humanity will never make meaningful progress on today's global challenges until our dialogue evolves into something new. Nowadays there are plenty of folks who can and do prop themselves up as authorities on issues that interest them. Many can legitimately claim expertise in their areas. But what good is it to be one more impassioned voice in a maelstrom? How does preaching your opinions to a choir of amens and hallelujahs capture the hearts and minds of everyone else?

May I suggest an antidote: a cultural shift from dictating to empathic listening. Passivity, of course, is not the point. Mouthing off on your high horse about what's wrong with what everybody else is doing and thinking is about as passive as it gets. Want to see some powerful and cutting-edge ideas in action? Let's coax scholars out of their rabbit holes and into the streets. Let's have reporters get their hands dirty in the messiness of human joy and folly. There is no such thing as a passive observer. There are no impartial third parties. All we have is you and me and we. How we communicate must respect this reality; the medium must be as compelling and as useful as the message.

Barack Mubarak! (Happy...Barack? Obama-brations?)

2009-01-27T19:30:00.000-08:00

in the Middle East? to the Muslim world? (or NOT! see above picture, posted on this blog via Sepia Mutiny via Reuters. I cannot do better than Vinod's caption: "Keep your hands off my 'tribs!'" Fo-shiz yo, these must be some of the few South Asians who don't like Bharat Obama)

Here is a full transcript of the interview from al-Arabiya's website. What are your thoughts?

Of course, the interview has already been analyzed and re-analyzed by political pundits. I've already heard a few Obama-philes today remark about the "absolute perfection" and poignancy of his words. But what I would like to hear more about is GOP/conservative reaction to this interview. I wonder if those people who thought/think he is Muslim are smuggly saying "oooh, I told ya! he's rubbin shoulders with them Ay-rabs now too!" Indeed, this is the first of numerous signs that will reveal Obama to be the anti-christ. (check out some seriously ooog-lay pictures here) Colbert is also doing a good job of playing up on another aspect of paranoia as I write this post:

"Our President has been KIDNAPPED by a terrorist group calling themselves 'al-Arabiya' television network...'we are not perfect?!' WHAT are they DOING to him??!"

I would also like to hear more about how Muslims outside of the Middle East (*fewer than 15% of Muslims are Arab) are reacting to the interview. As an American Muslim, I am elated that Obama chose to give his first interview as President to an Arab news-channel. The seminal nature of the act itself is just as significant as what he said, if not more so. But I do like (most of) what he said. It's just a matter of seeing if the policies reflect the words. I have hope that they will. I agree with an Arab commentator on NPR who described the significance of the interview quite aptly. In response to a question that highlighted rhetorical similarities between Obama and Bush, he said (in different words): the interview reflects a change in mentality - and a change in mentality is a change that will be appreciated in the Muslim world.

One of my favorite excerpts from the interview is below. This portion is particularly important because we had to deal with the Bush administration's complicity with (or shall we say espousal of?) the "clash of civilizations" ideology for eight freakin years - and that is exactly what OBL, his gundas and minions wanted. Now, we can only hope and pray that the number of people OBL can enlist to minion-ize will dwindle.

Q: President Bush framed the war on terror conceptually in a way that was very broad, "war on terror," and used sometimes certain terminology that the many people -- Islamic fascism. You've always framed it in a different way, specifically against one group called al Qaeda and their collaborators. And is this one way of --

THE PRESIDENT: I think that you're making a very important point. And that is that the language we use matters. And what we need to understand is, is that there are extremist organizations -- whether Muslim or any other faith in the past -- that will use faith as a justification for violence. We cannot paint with a broad brush a faith as a consequence of the violence that is done in that faith's name.

And so you will I think see our administration be very clear in
distinguishing between organizations like al Qaeda -- that espouse violence, espouse terror and act on it -- and people who may disagree with my administration and certain actions, or may have a particular viewpoint in terms of how their countries should develop. We can have legitimate disagreements but still be respectful. I cannot respect terrorist organizations that would kill innocent civilians and we will hunt them down.

But to the broader Muslim world what we are going to be offering is a hand of friendship.

City, Streets, People

2009-01-26T11:53:00.000-08:00

Saturday was my first day of unemployment. It was also the day I went on a Street Retreat with the Faithful Fools, a "ministry of presence" in one of San Francisco's roughest and most notorious neighborhoods: the Tenderloin. I didn't have to be another color, age, or gender to have an intercultural experience. All I had to do was leave behind the trappings of privilege and wander into the the neighborhood. For a day, I became a part of the Tenderloin, and my neighbors embraced me.

Gerardo and David are homeless and stay at the Hospitality House. They saw me staring at the sculptures and watercolor paintings in the window. They smiled and asked what I was looking at. Then they told me that I could come back during the week and do artwork. "They'll give you the materials," they reassured me. "They'll give you support, too."

Krista and I crossed paths twice, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. The second time I saw her, I was walking absentmindedly past a man waving a switchblade. I caught a strong whiff of marijuana in the wind. Krista shook her head and offered to walk me wherever I was going. On our way to Market Street, a panhandler asked her for spare change. She sneered in disdain. "Can't he see?" she remarked to me. "I'm out here, too. I'm hurting, too." I gave her a hug before we parted ways. "You look like a nice girl," she muttered, concerned.

An hour before the end of the retreat, an Asian fellow with a bowl haircut made me cry. He was sitting next to me on a bench outside the public library. I recognized him immediately as a regular at St. Anthony Foundation's Dining Room, where I volunteer twice a month. I also happen to have seen him sleeping in a doorway of a building on Market Street. As we sat quietly outside the library doors, he politely rejected offers of leftover food. He looked undisturbed, unassuming, even peaceful. His hair was dusty and unkempt, and there appeared to be a protrusion on his scalp. Every few seconds, his whole body convulsed.

I zipped up my rain jacket to hide tears. I ran into the library, then out again. I bolted towards City Hall, finally collapsing against a flagpole near the Victory Garden.

A woman passing by in an electric wheelchair asked me if I was all right. "Yes, thank you," I sputtered between sobs. "I mean, do you have someplace to live?" I didn't have breath to answer. She gave me her home address. "You're welcome anytime. It's just me and my son." I managed to nod and thank her. "You're not alone," she said as she turned her wheelchair and rolled away. I doubled over and wept.

Not looking back

2009-01-25T18:27:00.000-08:00

I was sick of being shielded. I wanted to shed my privilege like a molted exoskeleton.

For five months, I had allowed myself to be insulated in a bubble of wealthy, college-educated liberals. In this bubble, it was fashionable to pay lip service to social justice. We talked endlessly about giving voice to women on the margins and empowering them to find solutions. But when put to the test, we didn't recognize injustice on our doorstep. Hell, we didn't recognize it in ourselves.

I wanted out. I wanted air. I wanted to rub shoulders with humanity in all its shame and glory. I came to this city to serve peace and justice with my hands and my heart. I devoted this year to burning down the walls between my work and the world's suffering, not erecting new ones.

So I quit my job. I'm unemployed and starting fresh.

The power of provocation... Part I

2009-01-13T11:49:00.001-08:00

VIA EFF'BOOK, of course.

I, the fiery Mistress of Spices, updated my Facebook profile with the following status recently:

"People who don't pray, inform, protest or care about what is happening in Gaza are complicit with the murder of innocent civilians." (Will explain later.)

Today, a friend was kind enough to bring the following post from the very professional-looking ArtStar blog to my attention:

http://www.artstarblog.com/2009/01/why-its-totally-okay-to-not-care-about.html

Interesting perspective, no? Even before I scoffed in outrage at the argument or thought to draft a rebuttal, I found myself feeling very flattered at the notion of someone feeling strongly enough to write a whole post in response to - or perhaps, prompted by - my facebook status.

Getting a few people to think about the crisis (who might have not before) was my objective anyway. And, no, I won't apologize for what I wrote or said beyond that explanation.

But this turned out better than I thought it would. Ah, delicious controversy and dissent has taken an ephemeral facebook status to a greater audience. What fun! People are thinking, "damn, why is this girl so crazy? why she callin me a murderer? I didn't kill nobody." No, friends, you haven't actually killed anyone. But, yes, you are allowing it.

And now, for my long-winded response to the response:

Last week, I went to a discussion group meeting. The topic for the night was inspired by the recent commemoration of Ashura: Suffering. Kristin, a professor of Islamic/Muslim studies at Sarah Lawrence, opened the discussion with a historical overview of Ashura and posed a few critical questions. Here is a sample of Kristin's opening reflections:

The sufferings of the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson Husayn and his family
and followers in Karbala in the seventh century are remembered every year
by Shi‘i Muslims in the month of Muharram. The tragedy is reenacted in a
variety of literary, theatrical and processional ways. The memory of these
events is continually reconstructed as a means of personal religious
catharsis, a meaningful symbol of standing up to oppression, and as a way
to mobilize support and participation in political and military actions.
The themes of suffering and resistance to oppression have a particular
resonance for many Muslims in light of recent events in Gaza. As we are
once again supplied with endless pictures of the horrible suffering of
innocent civilians, calls for action, and the blaming of actors on all
sides, perhaps we can take a few moments to reflect upon the deeper issues
at stake.

For those of us living in comfortable circumstances, we might
ask ourselves in what ways we turn away from the suffering of others. Or, in what ways do we appropriate the sufferings of others for our own purposes? What would it mean to bear witness to suffering without demonizing some parties or acquiescing to incessant cycles of retaliatory violence? How does one respond to oppression without becoming an oppressor oneself? What constitutes a "healthy" conversation on suffering? What forms of photography, for example, bear witness to events in necessary ways and what forms provoke rage, disgust, or indifference in harmful ways? How does the Qur'an discuss the nature and phenomenon of human suffering and oppression, and the appropriate responses of believers?

It's difficult for me to attempt to summarize the whole thing but in this insufficient way: it was a long, beautiful, nuanced and varied discussion during which we addressed the concepts of justice, our perceptions of disabilities, tragedies and humility. We opened our understanding of these concepts by incorporating Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist concepts in addition to our own reflections about Islam. Inevitably, we were forced to express our frustrations and lamentations on the Gaza crisis from an emotional and spiritual, rather than political, perspective. And halfway through the discussion, a girl who was sitting in the corner of the room spoke up for the first time in response to someones foreseeable question about revenge and retribution.

"It is hard...it's hard not to be over there," she offered, with a perceptible quiver on her breath and a growing red flush spreading over her face. She leaned up in her chair, as if eager to get this off her chest: "I've lost five relatives over there so far...five people. And, you know, sometimes I think..." She paused for a brief moment before continuing as her eyes began to overflow with water. "I think that if I could castrate every Israeli soldier and every Israeli who is doing this do us I would feel better, I would feel some sort of contentment - as if it were justice. But that's not true. I know that they won't come back and I...I think about the Israeli soldiers who are my age, doing things that they don't really understand or want to do. Seeing things they don't want to see. It just doesn't solve things - it wouldn't help at all."

She looked down and the rest of us in the room looked around to gauge each other's reactions or stared off into the space of our own deep thoughts. I found my own eyes watering from the plethora of emotions that flooded my thoughts and confused me. Guilt, awe, anger, hopelessness, sadness. Most of all, I found myself reeling from the mere fact that this girl, who was justified in every way to be filled with rage and despair was also empathizing for the very people who were directly involved in the killing of her young cousins, uncles and aunts. I don't know what she's going through and none of us can even begin to fathom what's really going on in Gaza. But the pictures, the protests, the tears, the children, the mothers, the babies, the blood, the destruction, the wailing, the bombs, the destroyed schools, the hunger, the desolation of a heart that has lost everything meaningful in life... how do they make you feel? How would you have reacted to my new friend's revelation? And would you have been able to sleep that night, without some sort reflection or prayer asking for just a bit of respite, relief or hope for the Palestinians and peace in the region.

A new year, a new start?

2009-01-03T15:27:00.000-08:00

Ideas for bringing more activity to this blog (only to be implemented by consensus, of course):
- Everyone takes a turn being the weekly "post leader" who provides a question, quote, poem, puzzle, etc. for others to respond to (say 5-10 min. max, seeing as we all lead busy lives). It could be fun, thought-provoking, political, frivolous... anything, really.
- Book club/reading group - We all read something together and post about it here.
- Everyone quits job or school to devote much-needed time to this blog and loved ones. =P

Thoughts?

Update on Patient Deportation

2008-11-09T23:28:00.000-08:00

In August a fellow Chimerical blogger posted the NYTimes article and slideshow about Luis Jiminez, a Guatemalan undocumented worker who suffered the injustices of a highly flawed and sometimes inhumane American health care system. She pointed out the significance of Mr. Jiminez's story, raising some critical issues and gritty questions that are hardly ever addressed in main stream public forums. (See Below)

This article about Luis Jimenez, a Guatemalan illegal immigrant who was deported back to his country by a private hospital is particularly representative of the dismal crossroads between the two heavy issues: Immigration and Health-care.
Check out the slide-show and also go back and see the video featured (along with the article of course). His reading of the letter towards the end, brought tears to my eyes and simultaneously provoked extreme anger. How do we rectify such things? What would be the just outcome in this case?
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/08/01/us/20080803DEPORT_index.html

Today, the New York Times featured another article entitled "Deported in a Coma, Saved Back in U.S" about these issues and the similar story of Antonio Torres.

Getting Tough

Deported in a Coma, Saved Back in U.S.

By DEBORAH SONTAG

Published: November 9, 2008

Antonio Torres’s case illustrates the haphazard way that the health care system handles uninsured immigrants.

His story is one that is not only characterized by the same outrageous indifference to humanity and patient welfare, but also a dismissal of potential alternatives to cross-border shuffling of immigrant patients. THIS time the patient was a LEGAL immigrant without insurance whose rights were clearly overlooked. Yet, today's article also provides some hope (with a brief reference to the article about Mr. Jiminez).

In October, the California Medical Association, responding to an article in The New York Times about the medical deportation of a brain-injured Guatemalan, passed a resolution opposing the forced repatriation of patients. The American Medical Association is to take up the matter on Sunday at a national meeting in Orlando.

So far, the article seems to do a good job of delineating the complexity of this issue for both health care institutions and patients without losing sight of key areas that need reform. I'll follow up with a more completel post when I've finished reading the whole thing. :)

Our stars, our stripes.

2008-10-30T10:35:00.000-07:00

Let's take back the flag, darlings. We, who are women of color and children of immigrants. So-called patriots have besmirched our red, white, and blue so it reeks of xenophobia and fundamentalism.

We refuse to be had. We'll tear our spangled banner free from its redwashed associations and put it back where it belongs: in the shimmering mosaic of an international, interfaith, interdependent humanity.

In order to form a more perfect union, let us reclaim what is rightfully ours. This flag is ours.

(This post was inspired by Roger Cohen's column in this morning's New York Times.)

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

2008-10-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

It's getting chilly in New York (and everywhere else too I suppose). And I've been returning home later and later every evening. My nightly walk to my apartment along lamp-lit 29th Street evoke a certain mood. I want to write about these cold, windy nights and the yellow orbs of street lamps as I see them through the smudged lens of my glasses. But I don't have the energy to write at the moment. My supervisor says I need to sleep more and wake up earlier. (ha) So, I let T.S. Eliot do it for me. I have drafts and half-drafts of posts about a variety of topics, ranging from politics and music to men. And believe me, they are not all melancholy - some aren't even that thoughtful. But with barely enough time to shower between work and sleep, I share this poem as a reminder of how poetry, a beautiful song or a thoughtful image can illuminate even the most dismal of days (or nights).

TWELVE o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory 5
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark 10
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered, 15
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand, 20
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach 25
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard, 30
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, 35
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.
"So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.I
could see nothing behind that child's eye. 40
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. 45
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered
,The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon, 50
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory. 55
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells 60T
hat cross and cross across her brain.
"The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets, 65
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,"Four o'clock, 70
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount. 75
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

It's the only path to righteousness, he said.

2008-10-14T17:26:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I kid myself into believing I've moved beyond worrying what others think of me - but then I catch myself. True, my recent dedication of self and vocation to social justice issues has put off old friends and family members. But I'm still starstruck by other forms of prestige, especially now that saving the world is in vogue. Top business schools offer special programs for "social entrepreneurs." A popular website, idealist.org, hosts Graduate School Fairs for the Public Good all over the country (I attended the one in San Francisco a couple weeks ago). Even in choosing a placement organization for my year of service in the Lutheran Volunteer Corps, I persuaded myself that working for a slick, business-minded nonprofit organization was the wisest choice.

Nowadays I conjure up ways to pay lip service to my concern for others while keeping safely within the bounds of the reasonable and acceptable to other people. Like joining a cohort of sorely needed young leaders on the nonprofit Executive Director track. Or going to an Ivy League grad school. Or spinning a comfortably legitimate profession into an opportunity to do good. Accounting, say, or law. I don't care much for medicine, but it's a good example since people are always making lofty claims about why they decided to go to med school. Underlying my cautious plans is an ever-present, ever-human fear that I might never amount to anything. I squirm at the thought of leaving my fate to the whim of God and reckless circumstance.

My vocational vacillation reminds me of the frustration I feel with politicians who make lukewarm statements that they know in their hearts to be wrong. We've all heard their faithless words; we've watched them pay for votes with compromises. Sure, maybe the other guy is worse, but where do you draw the line? When do you flip the switch between staying likable enough for others' approval and having the courage to make unlikable decisions?

If you never want to settle for half-truths and tepid compromises, you may well have to get used to a new direction in life: down.

I've begun to suspect that the world will get no better until each one of us finds the humility to give up our quests for personal glory (your name on a brick, as Dr. Manning used to say). Until then, we will perpetuate the systems that legitimize us and appease our fearful egos. We will find excuses to look down upon our neighbors' differences and miss the value and dignity of each human being within.

Downward mobility is a lonely and lightly trodden path. But there's a freedom in it. I don't have to plan or predict where I'll be in a year, who will be a part of my community, or what will become of me. My life need not follow anyone's tired but true formula. What would happen if I surrendered control to the God I claim to trust? Could I let myself be so vulnerable? What would happen if I lived by heart?

Looking for a lazy afternoon and a hug

2008-10-08T11:52:00.000-07:00

to help me deal with the "ever-changing climate" of my heart (and the North)

"I bare my windowed self untamed and untrained
Dreams that hardly touch our complexions truest faults
If room enough for both my drowsy spirit shall fall
Bold waves tumble to the season of my heart
You have offended my faith and my trust
Until all is lost into the beauty of the day" (thank you JM for feeding my sentimentality)

Beautiful yellow, orange-hued afternoons, purple-pink sunsets that fill my soul with contentment and contemplation have all but ceased to offer themselves for my enjoyment since I arrived in New York. I yearn for simple things: true friends, a lazy afternoon, late night conversations over tea, a warm shawl to share and the understanding of meditational silence between two people who love unconditionally and profoundly. Relatively, of course, I am lucky. Most of the people I love are a few hours bus ride away, within the same country or always available telephonically. But my effusive, affectionate heart wants a sister, friend, family to embrace right now, both physically and emotionally. I am a fragile being in need of receiving and bestowing the multitudes of love and affection that I feel.

More-than-a-snapshot memory: Cindy, Alia and I once drove to Lake Murray at 3 AM. We lay next to each other on top of Cindy’s car listening to everything and nothing, relishing our nostalgia and ignoring the commencement of journeys that would take each of us in very different directions. Inside the car the radio was softly playing. Lyrics of songs drifted to our ears and mingled with the sound of crickets, lapping water, the rustling of trees and distant conversations. “It’s not always rainbows and butterflies, it’s compromise that moves us along. My heart is full and my door’s always open, you can come anytime you want.” Everything in that moment thankfully suited the mood of our still, but magical starry night. With a few hours left to go before my departure from South Carolina and another long journey back to Virginia, we found an exquisitely beautiful reminder - lakeside and in harmony with the beauties of nature - of our friendship’s core. And for me, preserved in that memory is the reminder of what true friendship is and how the world lends itself to cultivating such moments when you really need it. Thank you, God, for every blessing.

"No hay camino"

2008-08-29T08:20:00.000-07:00

Empiezo mi ultimo ano de bachillerato pensando en este poema de mi querido poeta, Senor Antonio Machado. De lo cual, yo enfoco en los sentidos no-existencialistas porque siempre hay impactos y consecuencias aunque no los quiera. Disfrute!

Proverbios y cantares, XXIX
Por Antonio Machado

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino:
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
Y al volver la vista átras
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
Sino estelas en la mar.

Awaiting Ramadan...

2008-08-24T16:46:00.000-07:00

But this is for anyone who has ever fasted, of any faith or creed.

Or maybe just for people who like milkshakes and dates.

Medjool Date Shake

ENERGY BOOSTING MEDJOOL DATE SHAKE
The Ultimate Energy Drink. Serves Two

Ingredients
1 Cup chopped, pitted dates

1 cup skimmed milk

6 scoops French Vanilla ice cream.

1/2 teaspoon grated fresh nutmeg.

Directions: Combine milk and dates in a blender and puree. Add ice cream and grate the fresh nutmeg into blender. Mix until smooth. Serve immediately.

Variations: Replace ice cream with non-fat frozen yogurt.

Try adding other fruits

Nandalal Bose

2008-08-20T20:34:00.001-07:00

The Slideshow:

Art & Design

An Indian Modernist

National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi

Published: 20080820

A selection of works by the painter Nandalal Bose, which are on display at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

The Article:

Art Review

Indian Modernism via an Eclectic and Elusive Artist

By HOLLAND COTTER

Published: August 20, 2008

“Rhythms of India: The Art of Nandalal Bose (1882-1966)" delivers a significant piece of news: that modernism wasn’t a purely Western product sent out to a hungry and waiting world.

Ode to my motherland

2008-08-15T11:15:00.000-07:00

I am here. You are there. Circumstances have separated us, but you will forever remain in my mind, my heart and my soul. Just because I am with my adopted mother, does not mean I have forgotten the values you imparted. Some day we will be reunited when this estrangement I can no longer bear. O mother, where else will I go?

Translation of the Indian National Anthem, one of the many jewels that Rabindranath Tagore bestowed us with:

"Thou are the ruler of the minds of all people, dispenser of India's destiny.
The name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sind, Gujurat and Maratha.
Of the Dravid and Orissa and Bengal.
It Echoes in the hills of Vindhyas and Himalayas, mingles in the music of Yamuna and Ganga and is chanted by the waves of the Indian Sea.
They pray for your blessing and sing thy praise.
The salvation of all peaople is thy hand, thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee."

Poor Sheep...Poor Butcher

2008-08-14T07:45:00.000-07:00

From the NYT Baghdad Bureau:

Bloody Blessing Goes Unnoticed
By Campbell Robertson
Published: August 13, 2008
The ritual killing of sheep at an official dedication ceremony isn't particularly noteworthy in the Middle East, but for a Westerner it adds an element of drama.

"Immortalize my words"

2008-08-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

While I admire our fellow blogger's enthusiasm and motivation to write ghazals, I hesitate to partake. Poetry is far from my forte (well, writing in general is). So while I ponder and let my muse inpire me, I shall listen to the great Indian maestros such as Pankaj Udhas and Jagjit Singh and hope for some creativity to flow:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzruTCf1ZoU

Rough English translation:

Touch my song with your lips, make it immortal:
Be my beloved, make my love immortal.
No restriction of age, not the bond of lives:
When someone loves should see only the soul:
By carving new trend, make the trend immortal.
Loneliness of the sky is in my lone heart:
With rattling paayal enter into my life:
By giving own breaths make the music immortal:
Make the music immortal, make my song immortal.
World snatched from me, whatever was beloved to me:
All won from me, I lost at every moment:
By losing your heart you make my victory immortal.

Let's Write Ghazals!

2008-08-10T23:26:00.000-07:00

I thought some poetry would be an excellent way to relax after this weekend/week. When I think of ghazals, I can't help but remember the great Mughal monuments and palaces I visited in India. Pensive and caught up in my own fanciful rusticity, I would indulge in the sublime beauty of my surroundings and imagine myself a dancing girl, a musician or even a poet in the midst of the artistic opulence of the Mughal court. Yes, I am indeed a spoony old thing at heart, aren't I? *wink*

We'll work on our ghazals throughout this week during breaks and random moments of inspiration - then present them next week. Good, bad, funny, tragic, whatever - we'll share the fruits of our laborious creativity soon. Disclaimer: I pretty much suck at poetry.

WIKIHOW - How to write a Ghazal:

Steps

Decide what your radif is going to be. Every verse ends with the same word or group of words (radif). It makes sense to choose one that can be flexible in use and meaning, so you can use it in different ways in each verse.
Consider what your qaafiya is going to be. The qaafiya is a rhyme that precedes the radif. Again, pick something with lots of possibility.
Get writing! A ghazal consists of a series of couplets (two-line verses), with each line containing the same number of syllables. Each couplet is a separate, complete mini-poem, so there's no need for any narrative progression, or any real connection between the couplets. Both lines of the first verse end with the qaafiya and radif. See down the page for an example ghazal.

Tips

You're bound to make a few false starts, and you'll soon realise that your choice of radif is the single most important factor in determining how successful your ghazal is likely to be.
Traditional topics include love
Traditionally, the poet's pen-name was included in the last verse; this final couplet usually contains a 'turn', or change of tone, to something more personal or quirky.
Remember, each couplet constitutes a separate little poem, so don't have one verse rely on a previous one to make sense.

Example Ghazal

In this example, the radif is "I do not know", while the qaafiya (the rhyme preceding it) is -ate, as in slate, fate, depreciate, etc. In the example, each line contains 14 syllables, but any length is fine - it's up to you.

Stranger at the Gate

Who cares about the stranger at the gate? I do not know
The poor orphan, abandoned to his fate? I do not know

Where once I had the answers, now my mind is full of doubt
How do these certainties depreciate? I do not know

From noon till night our ardent looks would scandalize the town
Why is it that your eyes are filled with hate? I do not know

It used to be that man respected man for what he did
These days are we just numbers on the slate? I do not know

The wisdom of the years is something valued now by none
The butt of standing jokes, this balding pate? I do not know

The saqi¹ turns his back; how many skins will be required,
oh my love, this unholy thirst to sate? I do not know

Once upon a time Amir was counted a believer
To every question now I simply state, I do not know

Here's the article on Ghazals from WIKI:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghazal

You tell 'em Maureen!

2008-08-10T20:00:00.000-07:00

On this blog we've had several shout-outs to Times columnists, but I'd like to give a special "Holla Back" to Maureen for her latest article. She spits the truth without hesitations and in a plain manner. Our paternalistic society is too quick to brush away such grave mistakes committed by men. While the woman is the Ho or the Slut with the loose morals. Riiiiiighhhhht.
Let's start rectifying things by applying male chauvinism to, well, males! Refraining from using such lingo altogether is the most ideal solution, but for now the over-zealous feminist in me finds the bashing from the likes of Dowd, quite ideal. One step at a time. You go Maureen!

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/10/opinion/10dowd.html?em

This part of her article is especially worth noting:

"For some reason, super-strivers have a need to sell what is secretly weakest about themselves, as if they yearn for unmasking. Edwards’s decency and concern for the weak in society — except for his own wife. Bill Clinton’s intellect and love of community — except for his stupidity and destructiveness about Monica. Bush the Younger’s jocular, I’m-in-charge self-confidence — except for turning over his presidency, as no president ever has, to his Veep. Eliot Spitzer’s crusade for truth, justice and the American way — except at home."

Muah-ha-ha-ha-HA

2008-08-07T11:59:00.000-07:00

really? Really?!!! ::here's me resisting the urge to make a Russell Peters reference::

Minorities Often a Majority of the Population Under 20

By SAM ROBERTS
Published: August 6, 2008

Confirming the breadth of the nation’s diversity, census numbers show racial and ethnic minorities now account for 43 percent of Americans under 20.

Clockwork Blasphemy

2008-08-06T21:42:00.000-07:00

Hello my little piece of laminated, fragile hope. Adorned with your garish array of bright, mismatched colors and symbols, I find you in the hands of many a passerby. Usually, in the callused, worn hands of whom I can only wish would cease to indulge in your false claims and exclamations. You shed layers only to reveal more sequentially meaningless characters and symbols. They promulgate thoughts of hopelessness, more roadblocks, more intrinsically “bad karma” or a divinely ordained dismal fate. Minimal as your contribution of sadness may be to the daily, bitter heaps of trials, tribulations, wounded bones and bleeding hearts, your fraction is just as sinister. Because it piles up. You know that your ashes, scattered in the wind, on the floor and out the window could congeal from many many crevices to form a slippery black mountain of despair with one shining, rarely attainable diamond at the crest.

Yet, they make a minor deity out of you still. You are concocted and perpetuated with a recipe that includes sacrificed earnings, blood, sweat and tears, mixed with greater hopes for their children, homelands, forgotten languages, birthrights, distant loved ones and the desire to retrieve whatever is left of their essential humanity. Like clockwork blasphemy they reach for you even if they reach for nothing else. On good days, maybe you are plucked and delivered alongside a pack of cigarettes that will replace meals and barely satiate hunger, perhaps a cheap cup of burned coffee, even an hours-old piece of bread and meat fresh off the glare of a heat lamp and hot metal rods. And in my own observation of your patrons, I see the ubiquitous crying out for hope, for mercy, for blessings from God – for a breath of relief, for once, at last, but probably – never.

"I'll see you at the debates, bitches" - Paris Hilton's Response to McCain's Ads

2008-08-06T09:07:00.001-07:00

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/64ad536a6d

Mmhmm, find me an engineer like that!

2008-08-05T13:51:00.000-07:00

Giju John, where you been all my life?!
http://www.sepiamutiny.com/sepia/archives/005321.html#more

"Te queremos y que Dios te bendiga"

2008-08-04T15:32:00.000-07:00

This article about Luis Jimenez, a Guatemalan illegal immigrant who was deported back to his country by a private hospital is particularly representative of the dismal crossroads between the two heavy issues: Immigration and Health-care.
Check out the slide-show and also go back and see the video featured (alongwith the article of course). His reading of the letter towards the end, brought tears to my eyes and simultaneously provoked extreme anger. How do we rectify such things? What would be the just outcome in this case?
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/08/01/us/20080803DEPORT_index.html

I.E. Top Republicans are Racist.

2008-08-02T23:20:00.000-07:00

Just look at their campaign strategy. Bob Herbert addresses it in this article.

Running While Black

By BOB HERBERT

Published: August 2, 2008

The racial fantasy factor in this presidential campaign is out of control.

We Oughta Know

2008-08-02T00:39:00.000-07:00

1/2 Asian-American/Canadian kid - Justin Nozuka's video debuted on VH1 recently. I think the song "After Tonight" is notable. His sound is acoustic, somewhat pristine, soulful and surprisingly mature for an 18-year old. An excerpt from his Myspace page:

"This guitar slinging aficionado has the street smarts of an urban swinger and the heart-bending soul of a gospel preacher, and is adept at blending a dark, bluesy Americana vibe with warm, acoustic soul where bits of old folk music and flamenco tunes swirl in and out of earshot."

Apparently, he learned how to play guitar from his "Mexican friends in boarding school." Yes, these bios always sound kind of cheesy, but this one strikes a chord with me. He seems to have grown up with a variety of experiences and cultural influences. I like that. It's reflected in some of his songs/lyrics. Especially, the heart-breaking song "Save Him" about domestic abuse.

I might go see him in concert sometime in September because he's probably going to be even better live in an intimate venue. He's also getting good reviews on Amazon, iTunes, etc.

Check out his music at: http://www.myspace.com/justinnozuka

"After Tonight" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgGkJez6pcM

"Save Him" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bu9M6Shva5w

What's in a name?

2008-08-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

Nothing, yet everything. The wondrous amount of weight a single word can carry is baffling to me. I mean, on a plain level, it is just a concoction of random letters that happen to identify me. My character doesn't change with it. My actions aren't influenced by it. Then why the hell does it matter if the majority of people are not able to pronounce it. People suffer from much tragic things. I can live with Impossibly-Pronouncable-Name Syndrome, right? Wrong.

I deemed myself worthy of a prize when I was growing up, for having the most unique name. Give me the Hindi version, and I was confused for a bit, but I was fine. Give the Gujarati version and I was fine. Give me the Telugu version and I was fine. But no one warned me about how effed up the Angrezi version would be. I blame the Americans' incapability to EVER correctly pronounce my name for the low self-confidence and lack of self-esteem I experienced.
"Wait, how do you say that?" "Is it ouajdfoau?" HELL NAW!
I dreaded the day a substitute would proxy for my teachers. They would always compensate for their incompetence by claiming "ooh you have such a beautiful name", "wow, what a cool name."
Then why CAN'T you pronounce it?! I mean, I'm not asking you to build a robot and it is not exactly rocket science.

I thought that I was being too harsh on my life's spectators and that I should give them a break. "Sure," I said, "call me __" or "call me whatever you want." Big mistake. I should never have stooped so low. My judgment was too clouded by my desire to be accepted, be it at the cost of sacrificing the essence that had characterized my being for so long. You can't blame me either. I could physically feel and still feel people avoiding me, purposefully delaying their interaction with me, so that THEY don't suffer the embarassment of mispronouncing my name.

However, it is high time for me to say "THAT'S ENOUGH, GET IT RIGHT BITCH!" For far too long, I have tolerated this misery and I shall bear it nevermore, nevermore. So what if it takes you 50 tries until you learn my name, I will stand over you with a bludgeon and make sure you practice it those 5o times. I will not forego opportunities to establish rapport, make contacts and for lack of a better term, "network," because the audience is too close-minded and too self-absorbed to address me with the correct pronunciation. I don't know if I'm being too adamant and if my mission will be accomplished, but for now, I will take advantage of this glorious name of the Goddess Sita that my grandfather has lovingly bestowed upon me and fight for its honor.
Ohh Gogol Ganguli, you had it easy, my friend, you had it WAY too easy.

Ain't dat da truf!

2008-07-31T21:00:00.000-07:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/30/opinion/30friedman.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

I heart Tom Friedman and heartily agree with his points. Democrats, please take note. Republicans, don't even bother.

Your Heart and Mine, full of warmth and sensibility...

2008-07-27T22:39:00.000-07:00

It's kind of hard to follow a post as good as the last one. But I write as my stream-of-consciousness, lazy, tired ass permits me to, with less frequency sometimes, more frequently other times, in between loose sheets of scribbled notes of observations, inspiration, dismay, glorious amusement and contentment that I am trying to compile in one notebook and slowly onto this blog as I find them in my desk drawers, crunched-up in my purse and in a corner of my room. With that said, I continue with a theme extracted from the last, very graciously received post.

I've been reading a late 18th century Gothic novel entitled The Monk by Matthew Lewis. It's also described as late 18th century porn. Yes, I'm reading porn from the 18th century that was originally "savaged by critics for its supposed profanity and obscenity." I like that the book cover describes the novel as once having a "lurid reputation." I like the word lurid. I'm finding many parallels to Shakespeare's Measure for Measure (a play very near and dear to my heart - I've probably deconstructed and analyzed it much more than I would have preferred), which I expected to find, due to the novel's own reference to a particular quote from the play at the beginning of an introductory chapter. Regardless of its "profanity," I find the novel to be full of compelling themes and narratives thus far.

22 pages into the book, I found a passage that struck me as quite profoundly pertinent for my station in life and that of the last post's author, and many of us who are still in the process of developing our own maturity, identity, relationships and perceptions of the world around us. In response to a passionate declaration by a young girl, her admirer, Lorenzo, launches into this polemical speech:

"You are young, and just entering into life,' said he: 'your heart, new to the world, and full of warmth and sensibility, receives its first impressions with eagerness. Artless yourself, you suspect not others of deceit; and viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence, you fancy all who surround you to deserve your confidence and esteem. What pity, that these gay visions must soon be dissipated! What pity, that you must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and guard against your fellow-creatures as against your foes!'

I agree with my unknown commentator. Why is it wrong to believe in a welcoming world? To see the world with some sort of optimism and hope. After all, that is why I do what I do, is it not? That is why we care and why we work so hard - striving for things that others, less-inclined to the "warmth and sensibility" of our hearts, would see as fruitless and frustrating endeavours. That's why I'm a realistic idealist. I accept this world, as Thornton Wilder would say (if I recall correctly), because it is both terrible and beautiful.

On Religion

2008-07-22T11:21:00.000-07:00

Sitting in an uncomfortable chair. Trying to chant verses and hymns that I don't know. Mostly old people. Some very attentive. Some nodding off. The lighting of the place is conducive to dozing off. I love Vaishnava bhajans. Very melodic and classically in tune. Bhagwat Katha. Story of the life of Shri Krishna. In this Kaliyuga people strive to maintain ideals that Lord Krishna set forth in his exemplary life. Photos of God everywhere. My mind is roaming. Unable to focus. Om. Religion is justice. It is not just and fair that a distant relative is dying from leukemia meanwhile you feign devotion and chant hymns of lord's glory. Lord Vishnu reincarnated time and time over to rid this world of injustice. Adharma. So should we just sit around and wait for his rebirth. HIV/AIDS. Genocide. Children orphaned. Soldiers dying. Civilians dying. Hungry people STARVING. Many kinds of injustice. If God is really omnipresent, where is he now? You know, Batman has many possible applications . Gotham City= today's world. Do we need complete, irreparable demolition and renewal or should a caped crusader save us? Even Bruce Wayne was urged on by Rachel Dawes to fight for Justice rather than seek revenge.
What about this multiple path business? Why does one care what path one takes? I can believe in Goddess Shakti or all 3 million Gods or just the indestructible soul, Atman. What I will not believe in is this inherent injustice that some people claim God himselft created (read Caste, class distinctions etc) If one's claim to fame and glory is the creation of class distinctions that haunt civilizations for millions of years, than that is not the God I believe in.
I don't believe that devotees should worship a God clad in the most elaborate clothing worth Rs. 1 Crore. If that is the only thing that invokes piety then forgive me, they're not true Bhaktas. Krishna was just a simple cowherder whose sole adornment was a peacock feather. Lord Swaminarayan renounced the world and then gained the status of divinity. God Shiva is first and foremost an eternal ascetic who associates with everything that humans normally wouldn't: Ash, the Crescent Moon, Ghosts and Ghouls, Poison, Dreadlocks, Cold, deserted places etc
Call me a sinner. But I'm a fervent advocate of the message and the lifestyle he imparts and not the blind devotion that bhaktas practice. That 1 Crore Rupee outfit could have gone to some charity or some sort of research. Let's practice conscious devotion. Karma will catch up afterall.

NOT the GREAT HOPE in the Middle East...more of the same

2008-07-22T06:59:00.000-07:00

Mideast Sees More of the Same if Obama Is Elected

"For what feels like forever, Israelis and their Arab neighbors have been hopelessly deadlocked on how to resolve the Palestinian crisis. But there is one point they may now agree on: If elected president, Senator Barack Obama will not fundamentally recalibrate America’s relationship with Israel, or the Arab world."

- NYT

Like, ohmygawd! I love my friend(s)

2008-07-19T23:21:00.000-07:00

If this doesn't clarify things and help us find men now that criterion and qualities have been delineated...well then, shizz - we effin' screwed.

"Omg he's so effin hott!!! Ahh okay so I've decided, this is what my man will be like:
Jason Mraz's mentality and goofiness. The ideals of Batman & hot like batman too (Dark Knight influenced me. A LOT.I've decided he'll have to save my ass from a burning building at least once) Cute like Imran Khan. Can dance like Hrithik. Has a smile/appeal like Shahid. Has the charisma and charm of Shahrukh. Can serenade me like Shaan in Jab Se tere naina (or Jason Mraz). Can serenade me in Spanish like Alejandro Sanz or Juanes. Has the creativity of Junot Diaz. Looks like David Beckham (and talks like him) in some ways. Can paint like Goya. Can be an activist like Brian (haven't found another one yet.) Can be understanding like Vivek Oberoi in Saathiya. Can be badass and g-hetto like Abhishek Bacchan in Yuva. Ooh and I was watching Life in a metro and I've decided he should have a sense of humor/quirkiness like that of Irfan Khan's character mixed with Jason Mraz's."

And addendum:

"Ah madam, you must pardon my ranting from my previous post. However, my list is utterly lacking as I had utterly forgotten about the personas that Austen has created for us. Thus, accept this addendum to the aforementioned criterion:
1)He must be as suave and debonair as Mr. Darcy and must've been "tormented" by his desire for me for at least a 3 month duration.
2) Secondly, he must be as forthcoming and outright slick like Captain Wentworth (ahhh how i long for the days when i can say "I'm in receipt of your proposal and am inclined to accept it")
3) Thirdly, he must possess the "swagger" of Chris Brown and Justin Timb. (and if he can produce beats like Timbaland+Rahman, than that's an added bonus!)
Yours Truly,
Wistful wisher"

Semiotic Guerilla Warfare...wurd

2008-07-19T01:41:00.000-07:00

Bitches, I'm gonna subvert your shit by OWNING it. And hence, I will own YOU! Down with consumerism, down with elitism, down with the man, down with Sex and the City.

You know what I'mma do? I'ma do dis:

Wear that damn sundress with a big broch. Then you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna wear a scarf over it.
I look good in a vest. It ain't just for skinny-ass bitches with no boobs. I'm gonna wear that vest, I'mma wear it good and I'm gonna wear a dupatta and a hat with it too. And some desi- ass-lookin bangles. BOO YAH
I'm gonna buy me a polo and pop that collar like its popcorn and relish your reaction to it like I relish the butter on popcorn...or better yet, ghee on some paratha. Mmm... So, come to think of it, I'm gonna wear that polo and I'm gonna wear some blingin costume jewelry with it. Not just some lame pearls. And probably a bindi too.
Buy a bootleg off the street and paint this on it: I'd rather give my money to a hard working immigrant or a Chinese laborer than some European robot, exploitative designer with a pole up his ass. It all come from the same places anyway. China, South Asia, Latin America... NOT from Europe. Ya herrrd?
Put "anything but effin' Radiohead" in the Music section of my F'book profile.
Mmm...halters are sexaaay. I got me a halter dress. That's right, I got one. And now, I'm gonna wear a cardigan over it and maybe some leggings under it too. BOO YAH again.

More ideas?

Yes, we smile. And we love too.

2008-07-16T22:01:00.001-07:00

Things I'm grateful for, things I'm tickled by and things I love. I'll keep adding as I'm reminded of them.

I call my co-worker G.Willy or Gwilly, when I don't call him Will. His real name is George William Bartholomew and he is an absolute gem.
Each of my coworkers are linked to someone famous. Ex. Dustin Hoffman, the guy who wrote and stars in "In the Heights," a famous jazz musician, some underwear model - you get the idea.
Kat, my co-worker, also likes momos. (mmmm...) Hurray! We're going to make momos soon or go out to eat them.
The chance to get to know people I would not get to know normally.
My roommate. Her name is Ghazala. She's beautiful. 32. And makes amazing chai. Some beautiful man needs to come sweep her off her feet.
The perks.
Pro Bono cases that make you feel better about the job and the legal profession in general.
Really nice associates and partners.
My hair staying straight on certain days.
15-20 minute commute to work.
Living in Manhattan.
Internet, cable, etc.
Time to check Gmail and F'book at work.
My coworkers being on G-mail and G-chat all the time.
Free lunches. Free food. FOOD.
Kathi Rolls in Greenwich Village.
Halal street carts.
Halal restaurants.
Eclectic oppulence.
Crooked noses.
Guys who wear hats.
Guys who dress like Pharrell.
People who use words like "lovely"
Not having to ask to go somewhere.

Of a fickle madness

2008-07-15T17:47:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, minor things can can turn an ordinary day into a really crappy, headache-y day, polluted by stanktastic moods and the desire to punch a punching bag (or someone's face) really really hard. Then all this negative energy and pent-up aggression really wears you out and you just find yourself at the bottom of some wet, dark well of pessimism and sadness. You start turning into some horribly dark and scaly creature who becomes the antithesis of everything you stand for. You growl and shove your way into the subway after work, fling your clothes about your room, lament about over-lamented grievances with the world, spend money in a ridiculous manner and eat one too many chocolate fudge brownies...or splurge on Pinkberry.
Then you realize... the trudge back from work and then the subway isn't an odyssey with witches and deathly traps around every corner. Maybe that epic pile of dirty laundry isn't so epic. Those brownies you consumed are now making you feel sick.

Maybe your roommate isn't being condescending when she says there are still ways in which you need to grow up. Because you do. You need to learn to forget. To become apathetic. Because, in the end, it's true that no matter how much you love someone unconditionally - if they don't respect you, if they use you, if they deliberately make you feel like crap - then he (or she) is not your friend, not worth your time OR your displeasure. And not really worth a whole blog entry either.

Damn. I need to grow up.

Next entry will be about what makes me happy. Yay!

Oh SNAP!

2008-07-15T08:58:00.000-07:00

What the hellz were they thinking?

Oh, right, it's satire. Satire that just happens to provide ample opportunity for frivolous deconstruction or worse - misinterpretation. McCain said he understands why the Obama campaign would be upset. And then he was like, "KA-CHING!"

Thank you Matt and Garry (and Palbasha)

2008-07-09T10:47:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlfKdbWwruY

For the exposure. It's about time that Tagore and my bhasha got some recognition. (Reprezent Bengaleez, reprezent!) Not to mention that this is a well conceptualized video. I'm in love. Ok, I admit that it's a bit cheesy too. And I know that there's a ton of controversy/debate with respect to Matt's travel blog, but you can make whatever you want out of this video. This isn't about polemics, Western arrogance, etc. I like to dance and I like to dance like an idiot, so this I find this video to be an apt reflection of my world view.

Also, one of the best Sepia Mutiny posts of the year - in addition to Anna's Father's Day post.

And, here's the NYT article about it.

Adulation for Adolpho

2008-07-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

"In Berlin, Germany, zoo officials show off Adolpho, a two-month-old, 3.3kg (7.3lb) giant anteater born in captivity." - BBC A Day in Pictures

Bestill my heart!

Oh, Adolpho! How I love thee. Thy countenance is sweeter than the sweetest rose. The innocent gaiety in thine eyes plucks at the strings of my heart. Forgive my dearth of words, I marvel at your tongue. How I would love to take thee to my bosom. And sqwoosh you.

What our asian mammas been sayin' all along...

2008-07-07T22:26:00.000-07:00

Why we should have arranged marriages. Or not...I'm reading the article right now. Will write something more informed later, when I don't have to go to work the next day.

An Ideal Husband

By MAUREEN DOWD

Published: July 6, 2008

How to dodge mates who would maul your happiness.

Oh, Maureen. I've decided I like your articles even better than Paul and ole' Tommy-Tommy Friedman.

Ok, now that I've read it...

The best part of the article is the end:

“After I regale a group with this talk, the despairing cry goes up: ‘But you’ve eliminated everyone!’ Life is unfair.”

Thomas L. Friedman is off today." (haha)

Yes, priest - you've eliminated everyone. Now we leave it to our parents to find the right person.

An hour at the Gratitude Cafe (thank you wordsmith)

2008-07-06T16:58:00.000-07:00

On the way back from work, my eyes always linger on the windows of a cafe a few blocks from my apartment. It is where sleekly-dressed up (or down) professionals and bohemian bourgeois spend a few hours socializing, perusing literature or importantly scrolling through screens on laptops while sipping on steaming cups of coffee or tea. Today, I decided, is the day that my humble body will step into its coffee-and-chocolate fragranced interior. I sit in a dimly lit corner table, attempting to look both self-assured and pensive, with an issue of the Economist to indicate my cognizance and intellectual maturity (this last item to withstand dubious glances which underestimate my adulthood). I came here to indulge in a warm cup of reassurance and the ambiance of a “fashionable crowd.” To me, more significant than their magazine-worthy aesthete is the confidence in their demeanor. I envy the self-worth and social stature that permeate the air around them like perfume blessing, emanating a shimmering and deliciously flickering glow of energy that unfailingly draws admiring glances even if for a fleeting moment.

I'm still waiting for a similarly warm, glowing wash blended with optimism to paint over my dull hues. I sit at the Gratitude Cafe, here in the most cosmopolitan American metropolis, feeling self-conscious, out-of-place and lowly. I run my finger delicately along the smoothly curving lines of the persimmon cup, having lost interest in its contents, allowing myself to fold deeper into the dark corner of the café - my presence engulfed and overshadowed by the humming of machines, voices and conversations that sound as smooth and rich as clotted creme. I resent my complexion, my lack of financial resources, my family’s problems, health issues, fatigue and the consequent anxiety which once again leads back to health and financial issues, circumscribing my life in a continuous cycle of YIELD or STOP signs. Like a self-inflicted, dull and pervasive ache, I also worry about the impending monotony of the mundane. Will there be anything else in my life besides work, sleep and the occasional shopping expedition? Is it wrong for me to want to be one of the fashionable crowd? To be professionally and personally successful enough to make myself and my parents proud?

Somehow, I knew this would end up happening if I came to NY. This indelible feeling of inferiority that threatens to blot out and smother my spirit – the spirit, the desire to sparkle like an illuminated crystal, casting the thousand colors of my passion, love and happiness onto the world as an expression of everything that is me.

Not only do I want to be optimistic about the two years ahead of me, but I also want to experience life to the fullest and be grateful for everything that I have been blessed with: a job (with a reasonable salary), amiable co-workers, a great roommate, a nice summer residence, 4 hour trip to DC and the friends who have been able to visit (will hopefully continue to visit). But an hour in the Gratitude Café hasn’t done anything for me. As I get ready to leave, I can’t help but remember Eliot’s lady, addressing the silent verses to myself.

“But what have I, but what have I, my friend,

To give you, what can you receive from me?

Only the friendship and the sympathy

Of one about to reach her journey’s end.

I shall sit here, serving tea to friends…”

I step into the world outside, the inundation of smoke, noise and smell of sweat issuing a slap of reality to my senses. I rebuke myself for my “carefully caught regrets” and self-possession, clutch my purse tightly and continue on my way home.

“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do now know

What life is, you who hold it in your hands”

shizzz...this is what liberal arts colleges figured out years ago

2008-06-22T20:07:00.001-07:00

Yeah, that's right. Do some good in the world with what you learn.

It has begun...

2008-06-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

We knew it would happen sooner or later. Apparently, Hejabis aren't very good for Obama's political image. This happened in FREAKIN' Detroit too. (Wow, did I learn a lot about demographics from the NCAA Tournament.) I've provided a link to the Politico article that first reported the incident. Here's the NYT article about the Obama campaign's efforts to tighten image control in anticipation of Republican slander.

First the AIPAC appearance, now this. (Sidenote: Mejin and I were discussing the AIPAC appearance a few days ago - she needs to share some of her views with us sometime.) I know that this is just the nature of politics and I've come up with enough justifications that trade a bit of "unpleasantness" for Obama's victory in the November, but I can't help but feel outraged and let-down by this latest incident. Obama's reactions to the speculation about his religion aren't really helping either. It seems that no politician will ever address the real issue of Islamophobia.

This makes me feel even more disgruntled for getting herded into that oh-so-very colorful podium crowd during the Obama rally at Davidson with the Governor of Kansas. I was literally pulled onto that platform because of my brown skin and, more importantly I think, my Davidson t-shirt. Not only did I look severely constipated in the pictures (it was blazing hot!), I was actually kind of troubled because I was wondering about the potential for this type of incident. And then I laughed my butt off a few days ago when I noticed the Kappa Alpha delegation right behind Obama's head in Minnesota. Ask me and I will explain if it is not evident why this should be funny.

Ah, well. And that's as much as I can rant before I return to packing for my big move to NY tomorrow. I hope someone else posts something soon. ;)

Where my daal and chawal at?

2008-06-16T17:04:00.000-07:00

Really long NYT article on Mukesh Ambani entitled "Indian to the Core, and an Oligarch."

Though I'm always dubious about the ethics of really really rich people, I find his adherence to his own culture and values to be very heartening. Another sign that we're finally leaving the post-colonial framework and definition of "high class."

A few of my favorite excerpts:

His idea of entertainment is not ballet but Bollywood; he watches as many as three films a week at home in a private theater. “You need some amount of escapism in life,” he says. “Those two or three hours give you relief.”

...

He has a legendary appetite, but mostly for the food of the bustling Mumbai streets. He has been known to walk out of fancy restaurants in search of dosas, south Indian crepes sold by the roadside. And he carries those preferences with him when he travels.
One evening, when Mr. Ambani and a former Stanford classmate, Akhil Gupta, were in New York, they dined at Nobu, the popular Japanese restaurant. Mr. Ambani, a vegetarian, picked at the fare, finding it bland. At the end of the meal, Mr. Gupta recalls him saying: “That was nice. Now should we go have dinner?”
For Mr. Ambani, it’s all a matter of comfort food.
“Personally, I still have to eat my dal, roti, chaval,” he says, using the Hindi words for lentil soup, flatbread and rice. “I just have not developed those tastes.”

Yes, this is one oligarch I think I would have fun with.

Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon....

2008-06-15T00:36:00.001-07:00

I found a translation! And couldn't resist...

'I am a poet only for a few moments, / My tale will be over in a few moments, / My laughter lasts only for a few moments, / My youth will end in a few moments. / I am a poet only for a few moments, / Many poets came and went before me / Some left sighing, / And some left singing, / Their story only lasted a few moments / I too will only live a few moments. / Tomorrow I will be taken from you, / But for today, I am yours. / I am a poet only for a few moments, / Tomorrow new tunes will arrive / like freshly bloomed flowers to be plucked. / There will be better storytellers than me, / and better listeners than you. / Tomorrow, someone might remember me... / But why should anyone remember me? / For my sake, why should this busy world / Waste its time? / I am a poet only for a few moments...'