April 13, 2008

Exxxxxxxxtreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeme Yoga!

Hello mutineers! I’ve been holed up in my east-coast satellite bunker for a while now, perfecting my Gleeson Grip, watching test cricket and savagely turning my back on a lacto-vegetarian upbringing.

I have been trying to keep up, however, and came upon this little gem of an article via our newstab (thanks Brij), relating the life of a peculiar kind of Yogi—one who may be tempted by “Extreme” branded potato chips.

I confess I am somewhat of a fan of orthodoxy—for Hatha Yoga, this sets me apart from adherents to a great deal of the ‘Yoga Styles’ currently popular throughout our urban centers—Bikram, Vinyasa, ‘Power Yoga’ and the like. These ‘styles’ generally incorporate extreme stress positions (ideas for Guantanamo?), extreme heat, push-ups or some combination thereof, in addition to the asanas you should be learning.

Though calisthenics aren’t a bad idea with regards to general cardiovascular health, Hatha Yoga’s basic poses could only be construed as an attempt at reaching a Richard Simmons-like nirvana of sweaty tights and oldies by someone who finds the distinction between the two to be functionally meaningless. This is missing the point: Hatha Yoga is a LOW-impact exercise meant to gently encourage your body to stretch.

Our man Jason Magness, of course, is into none of this yuppified “yoga booty ballet’ nonsense. Instead, he takes it one self-consciously non-conformist, dumpster-diving, freegan step forward—right onto a nylon rope lashed between two trees.

Yes, this is without a doubt impressive. But to what end? Hatha Yoga , for me, is valuable because of the tangible benefits it has for many who take up the practice for health reasons. Extreme stress positions, afforded by intensity-crazed disciplines currently popular, do not seem to achieve any tangible benefit other than an improbably swelled ego. So what does Magness think he’s getting out of being able to hold the Lotus Pose (Padmasana) on rope?

Mr. Magness calls himself a slacker.

Certainly impressive—but I was able to achieve ‘slacker’ status in college—while only able to balance myself on a folding chair during a spirited game of NCAA ‘03 on my roommate’s Xbox.

Surely there are other benefits, perhaps a book deal or complimentary nylon rope from the manufacturer?

Since he and a friend invented the practice three years ago, Mr. Magness has given demonstrations at yoga conferences, released an instructional DVD and taught 2,000 people at workshops across the country.

Sadly, there was no nylon rope deal, but Magness did get a trip out of it(seemingly the only currency he values is travel). How about groupies? Every ‘best in the world at this discipline’ aspirant eventually has visions of inexplicably devoted fans, fortunately for Magness, he can potentially enjoy groupie love unencumbered by guilt:

He and his girlfriend of four years broke up in January because she wanted him home more. The woman, Kara Hawthorne, says Mr. Magness is torn between desires for stability and living rootless. “I go through periods where I think there’s something wrong with me and I wish I had a more-traditional life,” Mr. Magness says. “Sometimes I think it’s a character flaw.

Flaws aside, there is an admirable streak of stubbornness in this Yogi:

Mr. Magness works harder than most. In the past decade, he has completed a dozen ascents of previously unclimbed mountain routes and placed in 25 adventure races, often with minimal food and gear. “Exploring that edge of human potential is really fascinating to me,” he says.

It’s tempting to think that this willingness to test oneself for the sake of the testing itself is a sign of altruism, but as usual, there’s always the money angle:

“Their energy is absolutely infectious,” says David Kennedy, marketing manager for Prana clothing, a sponsor. “That free-spiritedness is part of what Prana would like to exemplify.” The trait also makes Mr. Magness difficult to corral. He and his circle prefer old clothes and living on four-figure annual incomes. Prana wants Mr. Magness to lead a nationwide yoga-slacklining tour. He says it sounds like work. “If a company wants too much from us, we just say we don’t have time to worry about selling your product,” says Mr. Magness, who also is sponsored by Ibex clothing and shoemaker Inov8.

It seems difficult to reconcile sponsors and DVD tours with a desire to live on discarded food (3-week old sharp cheddar tastes somewhat like Camembert?) and 4-figure annual income. It also seems difficult to find positive instructional content in his story. So, as usual, i’m left with a question: how do you mutineers do ‘extreme’ without compromising work/family/relationships?

Nayagan at 09:52 AM in Musings · 17 comment(s) · Direct link

April 10, 2008

Don’t let your desi mom read this post

Especially if you are a smart, attractive, single desi woman. Seriously. This isn’t about desi women in particular but you’ll see how this information could be used for evil especially by desi parents. I know some of you forward posts to your parents but don’t do it with this one. You’ve been warned. NSFP=Not Safe for Parents.

Ok, now that I’ve cleared my conscience let’s get to the article at hand shall we? Slate.com recently published, The Eligible-Bachelor Paradox, which makes use of game theory to explain why the best women often end up single and alone if they wait “too long” to get married. We’ll save judgement for the end:

The shortage of appealing men is a century-plus-old commonplace of the society melodrama. The shortage—or—more exactly, the perception of a shortage—becomes evident as you hit your late 20s and more acute as you wander into the 30s. Some men explain their social fortune by believing they’ve become more attractive with age; many women prefer the far likelier explanation that male faults have become easier to overlook.

The problem of the eligible bachelor is one of the great riddles of social life. Shouldn’t there be about as many highly eligible and appealing men as there are attractive, eligible women?…

Actually, no—and here’s why. Consider the classic version of the marriage proposal: A woman makes it known that she is open to a proposal, the man proposes, and the woman chooses to say yes or no. The structure of the proposal is not, “I choose you.” It is, “Will you choose me?” A woman chooses to receive the question and chooses again once the question is asked. [Link]

So what have we learned so far? Despite the fact that men usually propose, it is the woman that typically dictates if and when a marriage will occur. In a free and modern society (meaning no forced or pressured marriages) the real power rests with the woman. Let’s go on then:

You can think of this traditional concept of the search for marriage partners as a kind of an auction. In this auction, some women will be more confident of their prospects, others less so.In game-theory terms, you would call the first group “strong bidders” and the second “weak bidders.” Your first thought might be that the “strong bidders”—women who (whether because of looks, social ability, or any other reason) are conventionally deemed more of a catch—would consistently win this kind of auction.

But this is not true. In fact, game theory predicts, and empirical studies of auctions bear out, that auctions will often be won by “weak” bidders, who know that they can be outbid and so bid more aggressively, while the “strong” bidders will hold out for a really great deal. [Link]

So the brilliant and attractive women hold out for someone worthy of their brilliance and attractiveness. Who could blame them? But, meanwhile, the “tier two” women claim their men with their womanly ways, thus removing them from the “game,” leaving the tier one women with fewer candidates that are perhaps, and I quote, “short, socially awkward, underemployed.” Now what about men like me…ahem…cough cough…tier one…cough…men that are still unmarried and ripe for conquest by those aging tier 1 women? I’m guessing we (not me in specific of course, just other tier 1s) might be defective in terms of our megalomania or commitment phobia. James Bond syndrome. So we are essentially out of the game as well (until maybe a much younger tier one or two woman clubs us over the head and aggressively claims us).

Where have all the most appealing men gone? Married young, most of them—and sometimes to women whose most salient characteristic was not their beauty, or passion, or intellect, but their decisiveness. [Link]

The article concludes with a warning. If you want to win this “game” then follow the advice laid out here. Aggressively choose a mate while you are still young. However, you must first believe that the “prize” is worth winning. That is a much more difficult question. A mate isn’t life’s only prize, or even its most important one depending on your view of things.

abhi at 09:46 PM in Economics, Humor, Musings · 267 comment(s) · Direct link

April 07, 2008

Art Without a Frame

The Pulitzer Prizes were announced today. The book I previously gushed over won the fiction prize. A Pakistan-born photojournalist named Adrees Latif of Reuters won for his picture of a journalist shot and killed by the military in Myanmar. What moved me deeply however, was reading the article that won the “Feature Writing” award. I need to provide some background before we get into that.

Normally I wouldn’t blog about a story that was one year old and has no explicit desi angle. Many of you probably already read it. However, there is something universal about the…incident…chronicled in this article. One of the things I have come to appreciate about a blogging community like SM is that we (bloggers and commenters) get to share our appreciation (or criticism) of art with each other. Whether it is via the comment section of a book review or in the form of a heads-up about some upcoming event, blogs make great forums to share thoughts which may be incongruous with the rest of our days. Regardless of why you visit SM in particular, I think the bloggers here feel pretty honored that you would “waste” part of your day on our site, reading what we produce (even if you know you could do much better). Just this morning I was visiting Unclutterer to figure out how to waste less time during the day and to streamline my chaotic life. Sitting here typing this now (instead of packing for a business trip tomorrow) I’ve changed my mind. We should stop and waste time during the day if it so moves us.

And that brings me to the year old article from the Washington Post that won a Pulitzer today. You can’t read it yet, however. First you have to play this audio file. Once you start listening to it you can move on to the next line.

It’s an old epistemological debate, older, actually, than the koan about the tree in the forest. Plato weighed in on it, and philosophers for two millennia afterward: What is beauty? Is it a measurable fact (Gottfried Leibniz), or merely an opinion (David Hume), or is it a little of each, colored by the immediate state of mind of the observer (Immanuel Kant)?… [Link]

Writer Gene Weingarten helped orchestrate a brilliant “stunt” on commuters passing through L’Enfant Plaza last January in order to take a stab at settling the debate above. He took one of the most gifted violin players in the world, dressed him up as a humble busker in jeans, and asked him to play his 3.5 million dollar violin on the metro platform. Who would recognize brilliance? Who would even stop?

It was 7:51 a.m. on Friday, January 12, the middle of the morning rush hour. In the next 43 minutes, as the violinist performed six classical pieces, 1,097 people passed by. Almost all of them were on the way to work, which meant, for almost all of them, a government job. L’Enfant Plaza is at the nucleus of federal Washington, and these were mostly mid-level bureaucrats with those indeterminate, oddly fungible titles: policy analyst, project manager, budget officer, specialist, facilitator, consultant.

Each passerby had a quick choice to make, one familiar to commuters in any urban area where the occasional street performer is part of the cityscape: Do you stop and listen? Do you hurry past with a blend of guilt and irritation, aware of your cupidity but annoyed by the unbidden demand on your time and your wallet? Do you throw in a buck, just to be polite? Does your decision change if he’s really bad? What if he’s really good? Do you have time for beauty? Shouldn’t you? What’s the moral mathematics of the moment?

On that Friday in January, those private questions would be answered in an unusually public way. No one knew it, but the fiddler standing against a bare wall outside the Metro in an indoor arcade at the top of the escalators was one of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made. His performance was arranged by The Washington Post as an experiment in context, perception and priorities — as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste: In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend? [Link]

All of us hope that beauty will transcend. Shoot, sometimes I will write something at 3 a.m. in the hopes that just one person will get it . If transcendence isn’t a probable outcome somewhere, then all our lives are somehow cheapened and we all know it. We count on others to make up for our mundane. But on that platform on that day only 7 people recognized the beauty reverberating all around them.

White guy, khakis, leather jacket, briefcase. Early 30s. John David Mortensen is on the final leg of his daily bus-to-Metro commute from Reston. He’s heading up the escalator. It’s a long ride — 1 minute and 15 seconds if you don’t walk. So, like most everyone who passes Bell this day, Mortensen gets a good earful of music before he has his first look at the musician. Like most of them, he notes that it sounds pretty good. But like very few of them, when he gets to the top, he doesn’t race past as though Bell were some nuisance to be avoided. Mortensen is that first person to stop, that guy at the six-minute mark…

Mortensen doesn’t know classical music at all; classic rock is as close as he comes. But there’s something about what he’s hearing that he really likes…

As it happens, he’s arrived at the moment that Bell slides into the second section of “Chaconne.” (“It’s the point,” Bell says, “where it moves from a darker, minor key into a major key. There’s a religious, exalted feeling to it.”) The violinist’s bow begins to dance; the music becomes upbeat, playful, theatrical, big. [Link]

See, Weingarten’s article isn’t about who has the best ear or eye for art or who is the best critic. What he’s trying to really figure out is who (what kind of person) will stop. Who will break out of their drone-like lives to appreciate something out-of-place and time because it so obviously cuts through both?:

You can see Evan clearly on the video. He’s the cute black kid in the parka who keeps twisting around to look at Joshua Bell, as he is being propelled toward the door.

“There was a musician,” Parker [Evan’s mom] says, “and my son was intrigued. He wanted to pull over and listen, but I was rushed for time.”

So Parker does what she has to do. She deftly moves her body between Evan’s and Bell’s, cutting off her son’s line of sight. As they exit the arcade, Evan can still be seen craning to look. When Parker is told what she walked out on, she laughs…

The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother’s heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us. It may be true with music, too.

There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away. [Link]

That last line is probably the most depressing line I’ve read in a long time. Its enough to send even a young 25-year-old into a midlife crisis. In order to get the kid to school and herself to work, the mom unknowingly rushes him past brilliance. Scoot.

I also got to thinking about the cross-cultural implications of this experiment. What if, instead of Joshua Bell playing the violin it was the young Lata Mangeshkar that was singing at that same metro stop? When I was a kid and watched Bollywood movies with my mom I was shocked to learn that most of the actresses didn’t really sing the songs. They were all dubbed and my mom told me that Lata Mangeshkar was the voice behind many of them. What if, in her prime, she started singing at L’Enfant Plaza. Would her voice be recognized as beautiful or just dissonance?

Let’s say Kant is right. Let’s accept that we can’t look at what happened on January 12 and make any judgment whatever about people’s sophistication or their ability to appreciate beauty. But what about their ability to appreciate life?

We’re busy. Americans have been busy, as a people, since at least 1831, when a young French sociologist named Alexis de Tocqueville visited the States and found himself impressed, bemused and slightly dismayed at the degree to which people were driven, to the exclusion of everything else, by hard work and the accumulation of wealth. [Link]

The most poignant story of that day was that of John Picarello, “a smallish man with a baldish head.” I won’t even quote him because its too beautiful too read just an excerpt about it. The article is very long. I read it three times tonight. I listened to the 40 minute performance. It really is beautiful and you can hear the footsteps of commuters in the background. Don’t take my word for it though, they don’t give Pulitzers out for nothing.

And thanks for wasting your time here. We aren’t art and we sure aren’t brilliant but it still feels good to know some of you actually stop here.

abhi at 10:59 PM in Music, Musings · 38 comment(s) · Direct link

March 19, 2008

The Aunt Also Rises

I take my duties as an aunt very seriously. Ever since I became a massi a year ago, I’ve started reflecting more and more on the important role that my aunts and aunties (the female family friends and mothers of friends) played in my life, both when I was a kid and in many cases, now.

So, I’m not exaggerating when I say that one of my life goals is to be the best massi ever. I can’t help it that I want to be adored and worshiped by my nephew in the same way that I adored and worshiped my aunts (the sisters of my mom and dad who I called tata-French for aunt—or simply by their first names, as in Dipika or Poupee) and aunties (I can never forget the glamorous Auntie Veena in Ghana who baked cheese sticks for our picnic at the Tesano Sports Club in Accra when I was 10) throughout my childhood.

Which is why when I first heard about the UK bestselling tribute to the institution of aunty-dom, The Complete Book of Aunts, by Rupert Christiansen with Beth Brophy, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it. It even includes “ten golden rules for aunts”! From the book jacket:

Of all our blood relations, an aunt offers the most potential for uncomplicated friendship. THE COMPLETE BOOK OF AUNTS is an entertaining and touching exploration of aunts in all their guises and varieties, culled from real-life, literary and historical sources.

The book was inspired by a kid’s question to the author: “Why are there aunts?” In response, Christiansen takes a thorough look at the etymology of the word aunt, the many words for it that exist in world languages, and great aunts in (mostly Victorian) literature. He also highlights various aunt types: Bargain Aunts, Mothering Aunts, Damned Bad Aunts, X-Rated Aunts, and Honorary Aunties (think of all the older desi ladies you call ‘auntie’).

We’ve all had most of these varieties of aunts in my life (perhaps not the X-Rated Aunt!). And, I definitely know a little something about mothering aunts. From the ages of 6-11, I lived in Pune with my grandmother and my own massi (the fact that I called her by her nickname Poupee, rather than using a title of respect indicates not a lack of respect but just our level of intimacy), while my mom shuttled back and forth between my father who could not leave the politically tumultuous Ghana and her children, who were getting a “good education” in a relatively stable India. My aunt Poupee was, in effect, my surrogate mother. Throughout my childhood, I saw my mom and her as different sides of the coin of grace, protection, discipline, affection, and unconditional love.

While reading The Complete Book of Aunts though, I was also especially interested in the “Honorary Auntie.” (How many of us when we meet an older desi woman—even if it’s someone working at a shop—want to call her ‘auntie’?)

“The auntie is a particularly potent figure in India, crossing several complex linguistic and cultural domains. Probal Dasgupta’s study The Otherness of English: India’s Auntie Tongue (1993) explores the auntie as “a significant fact in the domain of English usage,” quoting Kamal K. Sridhar’s view that she “functions as a marker of Western sophistication among the upwardly mobile middle classes in urban and semi-urban India.” In Indian English, it emerges, “middle and upper middle class children who got to English-medium schools address their friends’ mothers as Auntie.” This cannot be new: In The Raj Quartet, Paul Scott’s novels about the British withdrawal from India in the 1940s, the ingenuous Daphne Manners shyly asks whether she can call Lady Chatterjee auntie.”

I’m not so sure that only kids who attend English-medium schools used the word “auntie.” I’ve had salespeople and hawkers call me “auntie” when trying to draw my attention to their wares. And, of course, street kids who knock on the windows of a car or hang out by the autorickshaw asking for a rupee or two — they’ve called me “auntie” too …

At wikipedia, the entry on Indian English had this to say about the use of the word auntie:

Use of the English words ‘uncle’ and ‘aunty’ as suffixes when addressing people such as distant relatives, neighbours, acquaintances, even total strangers (like shopkeepers) who are significantly older than oneself. E.g., “Hello, Swathi aunty!” In fact, in Indian culture, children or teenagers addressing their friend’s parents as Mr Patel or Mrs Patel (etc.) is considered unacceptable, perhaps even offensive—a substitution of Sir/Ma’am is also not suitable except for teachers. On the contrary, if a person is really one’s uncle or aunt, he/she will usually not be addressed as “uncle”/”auntie”, but with the name of the relation in the vernacular Indian language, even while conversing in English. For example, if a woman is one’s mother’s sister, she would not be addressed (by a Hindi speaker) as “auntie” but as Mausi (Hindi: मौसी). It is interesting to observe that calling one’s friends’ parents auntie and uncle was also very common in Great Britain in the 1960s and 70s but is much rarer today.

I want to know: What are your aunty or auntie memories? Are there any great aunts and aunties you know of in Indian folktales, mythology, contemporary literature, art, and movies (yes, I mean Bollywood too!)? Me thinks it’s time to pay tribute to the desi aunt and auntie.

Sandhya at 07:10 AM in Literature, Musings · 94 comment(s) · Direct link

March 05, 2008

It isn't even April 1st yet!

I love wearing saris. Trouble is, the more unique a sari is, the more memorable it will be. If you wore this to a wedding in May, people will still remember it in June. For those of us who are 3,ooo miles from home and Mama’s saris, that doesn’t leave us with many options, especially if shopping at ISP in Murrland isn’t a palatable idea.

Since I haven’t been back to the pind since 1989 (insert cringe here), and I feel like I’m getting massively ripped off if I buy something on Devon or University Avenue, that only leaves me with one way to get my pleats on; every year, some relative returns from Kerala with a few gifts which my much-adored Chinamma chose for me. She knows that I favor Kanjeevaram…and that her older sister, my Moms, is very conservative. [See: my blouse sleeves, for proof.] Chinamma always sends me something beautiful, and because of her, I haven’t needed to purchase something silky or slinky online. And that, dear mutineers, is why I didn’t see this (click, to enlarge…if you dare):

Good thing our favorite fictionist “Happy No No Place” is alert and intrepid! She discovered this site and solemnly sent it along to me, along with the following pithy statement: “wow”. A few minutes later, when she had recovered her powers of speech, she informed me that she couldn’t reach their “live” customer service, to notify them of the unique item on their sidebar.

Meanwhile, I clicked that link (like you wouldn’t) and saw this:

Oddly enough, the Kanchipuram saris didn’t resemble what I thought they would; they looked more like the “fashionable”, lightweight, embroidered/bedazzled saris. I almost started to worry, but then I relaxed when I realized that the “special link” was how I could procure opulent, heavy silk! I must ask my Tamizzhhlan friends how to pronounce this phrase properly…wouldn’t want to botch it with my ABD accent and all.

anna at 09:25 AM in Fashion, Humor, Musings · 50 comment(s) · Direct link

Doing the Texas two-step

It’s been a long 48 hours for me here in the heart of Texas. Monday night I went to check out Barack Obama for myself at one of his stops in Houston. The crowd was about six thousand or so strong and was composed mostly of people of color (probably an 85-15 split) including quite a few South Asian Americans. I’d never been to a political rally and figured this would be my chance to witness one first hand. I would have loved to have gone to a Clinton rally as well but my schedule (and hers) didn’t permit it. My observations from the rally were many, but here are a few:

1) There are a lot of sheep who will bay at just about anything

2) People seem to go crazy when free stuff is being handed out. When free Obama placards were being handed out (to wave around at the rally) I felt like I was in the middle of a disbursement of flour in the Gaza strip, given the way people started acting

3) The vast majority of people want to believe in someone other than themselves

4) Gas prices seem to be the most important thing to the group of people I was with

I realized that a rally just doesn’t do anything for me. I am a policy wonk and find it more satisfying when I feel the candidate is talking directly to me rather than simply trying to inspire me.

I early voted in the primary but I also caucused after the polls closed at 7 p.m. CST tonight (Tuesday). This dual primary-caucus system is unique to Texas and is often described as the Texas Two-Step. At 7:15p.m. you sign in and declare which candidate you are caucusing for. You have to caucus for a candidate in the same party as the person who you voted for earlier in the primary. However, there is nothing preventing you from splitting your “two votes” among two candidates if you choose to.

The caucus — officially dubbed a “precinct convention” — begins at 7:15 p.m. or when the polls close, whichever is later.

Caucus-goers arrive and put their names and presidential preference on the “sign-in sheet.” Ideally, they should show proof of having voted in the Democratic primary, but it is not absolutely necessary, according to the Harris County Democratic Party.

The group first elects a chair and secretary. Those two then take a count, noting the total number of people and how many are for Obama or Clinton. Delegates then are distributed proportionally.

For example, say 100 people show up at a given precinct on Tuesday night. If 75 of them support Clinton, and 25 support Obama, then she gets 75 percent of the delegates and he gets 25 percent. If the precinct has 20 delegates to allot, Clinton gets 15, Obama 5. [Link]

I live in a heavily African American district so I expected that the caucus at my local precinct, an African American church directly adjacent to my apartment building, would be filled with Obama supporters. It was. I also expected there to be a heavy representation of health care professionals since the area of town I live in is called the Med Center area. There was. So many people showed up that just signing everyone in took an hour and a half. Since I was one of the first to sign in, and since I lived right next door, I left the caucus, made barbecue and lime salmon with steamed asparagus, ate my dinner, and then returned to the church just in time to begin the caucus.

At this point the Obama supporters were asked to go to one side of the room and the Clinton supporters to the other (no other candidate had enough supporters to meet the threshold). The caucus vote was roughly 370-80 in favor of Obama which meant that the delegate breakdown for my precinct was 29-7 in favor of Obama. Now we had to vote, from among the remaining caucus participants (half left after signing in and being counted), who would serve as elected delegates to the state convention. I think I had a pretty decent shot at being elected a delegate by my peers but I passed. I am instead thinking of making a power play to become captain of the entire precinct (the person coordinating a caucus). If Jindal can win in Louisiana why not I in Texas ? Baby steps like these are a way in which desis can get more politically active on a small scale while keeping their day jobs. Plus…I’m power hungry.

In any case, I observed that most of the desis there (about a dozen or so) caucused for Hillary Clinton, and that all of those present until the end were under ~35. I also noticed that many of the African American participants questioned every detail, afraid that their vote might not be counted or that the middle-aged white Obama supporter who serves as the current precinct captain might change his vote or might not be sufficiently loyal enough to Obama. Not a single black man remained to caucus for Clinton, but a handful of black women did.

I left just after 10 p.m. CST feeling pretty satisfied. I excersied my vote to the fullest extent possible. Juding by the results, every vote counted.

abhi at 12:33 AM in Musings, Politics · 89 comment(s) · 1 reader(s) linked · Direct link

February 27, 2008

Hotness, thy Name is Thara

What do you get when you combine a half-Black, half-Irish Mom with a Guyanese-Indian Dad? A lovely Pinay woman named Thara, with an even lovelier voice, that’s what. ;)

Blogger Cherez (thanks!) helpfully left a tip on our News Tab which inspired much googling and listening after my very late dinner. I had no expectations as I surfed and contemplated a possible post, but then I was pleasantly surprised by what I heard; this girl can sing. In fact, she can sing well enough that I’ve finally listened* to a Jay Sean joint! The duo collaborated on the single “Murder”.

The second time I hit play on the video above, for Thara’s “Jump on”, I focused on her voice vs. the video. I did that for two reasons:

1) The video doesn’t do the song justice

2) She really does look like one of those Sigma Omicron Pi princesses who inspired all the boys (Filipino or not) to go to MGA Kapatid meetings at Davis.

Hence my “pinay” joke. :) I know. She’s a quarter white, a quarter black and half-brown, but to me, she looks Asian. In fact, the first time I watched “Jump on”, I nearly jumped, because I swear I used to race this girl (and her white, ‘92 GSR) to the last covered parking space across from Freeborn Hall at Davis, every other day. Couldn’t be Thara, though…she was six back in 1993. ;)

If Thara, whose full name is Thara Natalie Prashad, looks familiar, here’s why:

…the savvy singer has done commercials for Verizon, Reebok, Finishline and American Eagle. Additionally, she took on minor roles in Guiding Light and One Life to Live - two daytime soaps - and has appeared in a recent Spike Lee special, Miracle“s Boys.

Musically, the sassy yet classy songster has recorded “You Want It” and “Shake It,” and has collaborated with John Legend, Fabolous, Joe Budden and Fat Man Scoop.

Thara can also be seen in music videos, from Jay-Z“s “Excuse Me Miss,” and Fabolous“s “Make You Mine,” to Sean Paul“s “Ever Blazin,” in which she plays the leading video vixen. [link]

Considering some of the discussions we’ve had on SM over the years, I think some of us might be sympathetic to what Thara went through, while coming out to her parents (as someone who was not going to go to med or law school):

Well, I started at Fordham as a pre-med, bio major with a minor in theater. But I wasn’t happy. So I kind of started doing stuff, and seeing where it was going to take me, and then I got my first production deal with Orange Factory. We started producing my demo, and doing all that stuff, and it just got to be too much. I was kind of doing school, and kind of pursuing music until I said, ‘I need to be giving 100%.’ So I did.’…

(Laughs) My parents freaked out. I wrote them a four-paged letter. I wrote it because I’m an extremely emotional person. I knew that if I tried to talk to them, I wouldn’t be able to express myself clearly. I literally stood in front of them, just reading this letter, tears falling down my face. But it was out there, you know? [Cherez]

Finally, her family “got” it, as she revealed in this excerpt from an interview she did with MoraFire.com:

You recently performed at the Bollywood Awards? How was that?

Thara:“Yes. Oh my god, that was such a big deal, not so much for everyone else, but for my family! Cause it was the first time that they could get what I was doing. My grandma was able to come and my aunts and uncles and all my cousins. For them the Bollywood Awards were such a big deal because it was with all the stars they watch in their movies … and for me to perform on the stage with all of them was really big!”

I must admit (bashfully) that the moment I read that, I wondered what Thara had worn to the event, because I had a flashback of Truth Hurts moaning her way through that awful “addictive” song on-stage, at some similar desi show, while sporting a pair of kundi-cutters which were painful to behold. Whatever. It’s wonderful that Thara’s loved ones support her, despite the fact that she doesn’t “come from a family that’s ever done this.”

Thara was on DJ Clue’s label, Desert Storm, an honor she shared with Fabolous (holla back young’n, hoooo hoooo!), but according to her MySpace page, she’s no longer with them. I agree with a comment I saw on YouTube, under her “Jump on” video; she sounds just as good as, if not much better than what I’m subjected to when I masochistically turn on my radio (I hate DC stations). If Thara’s music doesn’t catch on, perhaps she should do an MTV reality show; it’s not like Heidi Spencer would have been able to writhe around on the beach in a bikini if she hadn’t been on The Hills. Oh, what passes for talent these days…

::

*I know a lot of people who think that writing for SM must make us super-brown, but at least in my case, I find that I’m ignorant of a lot of what constitutes “desi culture”. Jay Sean for example— I had never heard a single song of his until tonight. It’s an odd feeling, to be in the middle of the baddest, brownest blog of ‘em all and to not have exposure to what I “theoretically” should know all about…:)

anna at 11:32 PM in Music, Musings, Profiles · 49 comment(s) · Direct link

February 20, 2008

What's God Got To Do (Got To Do) With It?

First off, a belated thanks to the Mutiny for letting me stay a month longer. I’m excited to be here, and even more excited that my topics now know no bounds. Brace yourselves. Huddle in the bunker.

You all know I love to write about food. And I love Sri Lanka. So what would make me sadder than anything? (Subtract conflict in Sri Lanka from consideration.) This piece about a Sri Lankan restaurant, from the Village Voice.

My friend K sent me this. (Thanks, K!) There’s so much wrong with it that I hardly know where to begin. But what struck me most was something I’ve been seeing more and more in coverage of Sri Lanka: gratuitous inclusion or overemphasis on religion. There’s enough carnage in Sri Lanka that I suppose people feel compelled to cover or mention the country. At the same time, they feel that they ought to smush news or writing about it into the Religion v. Religion WWE format currently favored by those discussing 9/11 and its aftermath.

Sietsema’s lede:

If it weren’t for almost perpetual civil war, Sri Lanka would be a model of ethnic and religious diversity. Four of the world’s chief faiths—Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Christianity—live side-by-side on the teardrop-shaped island once known as Ceylon.

Let’s look at that again:

If it weren’t for almost perpetual civil war, Sri Lanka would be a model of ethnic and religious diversity.

In math terms: Almost perpetual civil war [along ethnic and to a lesser extent, religious lines] + model of ethnic and religious diversity = NOT A MODEL OF ETHNIC AND RELIGIOUS DIVERSITY! So why start like that? And then the whole story is suffused with religious and exoticizing language.

Not long ago, getting good Sri Lankan food required a pilgrimage, too. Staten Island’s Victory Boulevard hosts several small cafés anchored by a mosque, and there’s a slightly more ambitious Sri Lankan eatery in a remote Hindu neighborhood in Flushing. But now a full-blown Sri Lankan restaurant has appeared near Gramercy Park, like a sign from the deity (or deities).

All emphases mine. (As K pointed out, forget that Sigiri, another Sri Lankan restaurant, has already been in Manhattan for quite some time.) Read on: according to Sietsema, any Sri Lankan restaurant in New York must satisfy Hindus, Buddhists, Christians, and Muslims.

Nirvana’s best main courses are similarly anchored by an exotic starch. Pittu arrives like an encoded message from outer space—a perfect white cylinder compacted of beaten rice and shredded coconut, which begins to crumble and flake as it lands on your table.… Other strange and singular Sri Lankan starches…

First of all, pittu is apparently FROM SPACE. Second: Call the alliteration police! Nayagan, can you deduct pittu-points for this?

Now, this randomly religious restaurant review would be perhaps not such a big deal if it were not part of a larger pattern I’ve been observing. Coverage of Sri Lanka all too often gets skewed because it does not fit in the box of Religion v. Religion. Sietsema’s review mentions the word “ethnic” once, and the word “Sinhalese” once. While there is certainly a religious element to the conflict, it is hardly the only or even the dominant one.

I’m not in favor of deepening the chasms that exist in discussion of Sri Lanka, but when bringing that discussion to new participants, I’d like to see it reflected more accurately.

Other examples:

The Christian Science Monitor on Muslims in Sri Lanka. Asking if they’re “ripe for fundamentalism” is not any better just because the headline—and at least one subhead—ends in a question mark. This is not at all the story in this situation: the story is that there’s a huge population of victimized, displaced, largely ignored Muslims.

Dalrymple’s passing reference in the NYT to the “Sri Lankan Hindu extremists” who killed Rajiv Gandhi. The LTTE was responsible for the death of Rajiv Gandhi, but the organization is secular, and has Christian and Hindu members. Indeed, the Christian Science Monitor story indicates that it’s had Muslim members! But this does not fit into the commonly understood framework of religiously driven terrorism. (Check out Walter Laqueur for more on this.) And credit to Ramesh Rao, who has written about this elsewhere (although I certainly do not agree with everything he writes!)

This Sepia thread: Here. ‘Nuff said.

This, sadly, seems to me the most accurate take.

Now, the question is, what should people be doing about it? It would be super to have a productive discussion about it. But what conditions must be in place for that to happen?

V.V. at 08:04 PM in Food, Musings, News, Religion · 66 comment(s) · Direct link

February 14, 2008

Happy Walentine's Day

I have been saving and saving and saving this post, since it seemed to me most appropriate for Walentine’s Day.

Cheap V- and W-switching jokes aside, as you may remember, I was recently in Singapore. Along with Preston Merchant, photographer extraordinaire, I made my way out to the Sri Senpaga Vinayagar Temple, on Ceylon Road in Katong. This temple, which just may be my favorite temple in the world, is gorgeous. It’s beautifully painted, clean, and welcoming. It’s got a huge collection of different Ganeshas, and all the priests are from Sri Lanka. Ceylon Tamils in Singapore built the temple over a century ago, but now Hindus of all backgrounds worship there.

There are rules for worship on the wall that detail the kind of clothing to be worn, and the temple pamphlet specifies an order of worship. But the reality of the temple did not hew to the rules as they were written—indeed, no temple I know really does. Women came in dressed for work, toting children; live musicians played nathaswaram; priests served warm paiassam; people worshipped in the order that pleased them (or, at least, I did). They let Preston take pictures. I paid for prayers in my family’s name. The chief kurrukkal loaded me down with books about the temple and gave me a tiny statue of Ganesha, gratis. It didn’t feel like a place with many rules—just a lot of warmth.

The temple also has a store. I purchased many things there: a few Ganesha pendants, a five-faced Ganesha statue, Ganesha keychains, and some books. Among the books: guidelines to funeral rites for Saivite Hindus—and guidelines to marriage for Saivite Hindus.

I pointed at the display case on the wall and told the volunteer running the store that I wanted both.

“Both?”

“I’m preparing for my whole life here,” I said. “Who knows when I’ll come back to Singapore?”

I figured that hopefully I wouldn’t need the death one for awhile (is there a Hindu equivalent to crossing oneself? I don’t know it) and pulled the other one out to read on the plane home. I have long collected booklets with descriptions of marriage rituals, largely as book research (I am, after all, the author of a book called Love Marriage—or should that be Lowe Marriage?), but had never seen an English guidebook to the art of arranged marriages.

This one is called Guidelines for Marriage Proposals and Good Progeny for Saivite Hindus. The book was researched by a C. Tharmalingam and I didn’t find a date on it. It made explicit made things I had heard; it wrote them down. But even so, it is a book of guidelines, not rules. Are our forebears and elders, perhaps, more flexible than we give them credit for? Or should we be concerned that they wrote these things down at all?

It begins:

As a safeguard it would be best if the match-maker were to know the future bride and bridegroom in person. Otherwise one would be unwittingly matching a dwarf to a giant…. Generally, the young lady should be slightly shorter than the young man for better appearance.

The physical appearance has been settled.

That’s right—uncle has settled the question of physical appearance on page one, line eight. If only we were all so efficient! He goes on to place a heavy emphasis on astrology, warning that if the couple fall into the same category in a certain part of the Tamil Almanac,

in one instance the future husband will die, in another category the future bride will die, in another the children will die, in another loss in property and yet another the couple will be separated and living in far away countries.

He places great faith in astrology, but also in chemistry. If all is satisfactory star-chart-wise, he recommends a meeting in an isolated temple. (!)

Here again, there is a hurdle to be crossed. In this instance the couple themselves will have to decide whether there is chemistry between them. Usually one look would suffice.

In Tamil it is known as “Manap Poruththam.” If there is not, it is best to drop the proposal right away—even if there is astrological agreement.

I find this frankly kind of sweet. He skips straight over the wedding and goes to guidelines for the best times and ways to mate, in order to ensure a good, healthy, and virtuous child.

As per indications in the Puranas, if a man is physically stronger than a woman a male child will be born. If the opposite is the case the result will be female child. If the strength of man and woman is equal, an [sic] eunuch may be born.

In respect of the attitude of the partners, during intercourse both should not close their eyes. They should further be free from any fear at mating time.

Predications may be made for the child including its sex and qualities depending on the day of intercourse counted from the commencement of menstruation.

I have to say that in all my research, I had never before seen any of this written down in English. Maybe I was not looking hard enough, or looking in the wrong place. He goes so far as to specify what kind of child you will get if you mate on certain days:

The best day for the expectation of a daughter is the fifteenth (15th) day as the female child thus born will be healthy, beautiful, charming with highest character. The child will become highly educated and be God-fearing. She will get married to one of equally high character and will be an asset irrespective of the place of birth and whichever family she goes to by marriage.

Similarly the sixteenth (16th) day is the best day for expectation of a son. The child will be exceptional with qualities as described above.

The Upanishads say that if the conception is established for the first time mating with a virgin on the sixteenth (16th) day counted from the day of onset of menses a male child will be born having outstanding character and extraordinary capabilities. He will be almost a genius, loved and respected by all.

His intellectual achievements will be of the highest order and he will possess all material comforts without any great effort. However, chances of attaining this type of condition and conception are very very rare.

Seriously.

In the Appendix, we are given “How to Identify an Intelligent Child.” Again with the efficiency!

Look at the top of the child’s head. It should appear like a trapezium - i.e. the plan view [sic]. The shorter parallel side being the forehead and the longer side being the back of the head.

Secondly look at the child sideways. The back of the head should jut out beyond the straight line of the neck.

Look at the child from the front. The front elevation of the face should look like an inverted triangle—the base being the top of the forehead and the summit being the chin of the child.

And there you do indeed have an intelligent child.

Look again at the child from the front. And if the top of the head slopes upwards from the front to the back of the head, then you have a sure bet that the child is second to none.

**

This book was probably written some time ago; it is gendered and heteronormative to be sure, and probably reflective of the society and time in which it was created. Not to mention that it is bluntly specific about some surprising things. Now, it would be easy to be glib about all this. I have to tell you that I am resisting with some effort. But even the researcher of this book is prepared to admit that although he has gone to the effort of writing all this down, he is not always right.

Please Note: Observations have been made where people with small heads and with no special features and on top of it with small foreheads have made the grade and are holding top appointments.

Which again proves that destiny is supreme.

Anyway, these are the exceptions.

Destiny is supreme. Happy Walentine’s Day, Mutineers. Love in all its forms. Acknowledging that guidelines have existed. Going around them.

photo by Preston Merchant

V.V. at 03:06 PM in Musings · 24 comment(s) · Direct link

February 13, 2008

Mera Farz? How do you say, "A Blogger's Duty", in Hindi?

Dear ING Direct,

I blog this with a heavy heart.

Earlier today, mastervk submitted a link to a news story which caught my attention; it dealt with gender inequality and speaking out against a regressive advertising campaign in India. Duly noted, I thought, rather sure I was going to blog about it later. I saw the excerpt for this story a few more times throughout the day, but apparently I was not really understanding it, for if I had, the disappointment I suddenly feel would have flattened me earlier.

I didn’t realize they were talking about you.

You, ING, you are the one behind this?

In the commercial, the birth of a girl is followed by what the Delhi government considers as a derogatory statement: Hai To Pyaari Lekin Bojh Hai Bhari (Though loveable, she’s still a burden). “It sends out wrong message,” said education secretary Rina Ray. She has written to National Commission for Protection of Child Rights and Delhi Commission for Women(DCW) asking them to ensure the advertisement is withdrawn and also a public apology is issued by the insurance firm on all channels.

Ray is unhappy with the overall gender bias in the ad, particularly the scene which depicts fathers being weighed down by the financial costs involved in bringing up their daughters and funding their studies so much so that the ground beneath their feet caves in. Ray quotes a hospital scene from the commercial in her letter which depicts girls as a burden.

Ray said: “This is unfair. Parents spend money for a boy’s education too. Then why single out girls, especially when the country is positively debating women empowerment.”

The DCW has written to the insurance company asking them to stop airing the advertisement. “Promoting such biased views on the girl child may have a demoralising impact on women,” said Barkha Singh, DCW chairperson.

The TOIlet paper concludes with this paragraph:

However, the company said they have not received any letter. “The ad was not meant to be derogatory to anybody and hurt others’ sentiments. Its aimed at rekindling emotions and sentiments of a father’s duty (‘mera farz’). We will look into the objection and take recourse if the ad has hurt anybody,” said Geeta Sarin, regional general manager, ING Vysya Life Insurance Co ltd.

Haven’t received a letter? Yet. You haven’t received a letter, yet. You know what else you haven’t received yet? My notice to cancel all my accounts with you. Because as much as I love you (and oh, how I do), I love little girls, equality and not perpetuating bullshit, more.

Do you know how difficult this is for me? Kindly allow me to explain why I feel a sense of loss about something as plain as a bank account.

Like almost every American, I was an AmeriCAN’T when it came to saving money. My “regular” savings account did not excite me, the interest it paid was insulting and often, it was pressed in to duty as a shallow well for emergency transfers to my checking account, to make sure that my health insurance premium was paid instead of bounced. I did not save. My anemic Roth IRA doesn’t count.

Then, I met someone a few years ago. He was many things, but most relevant for this story, he was a very, very wealthy C-level exec. I didn’t know any of that when I started dating him (like a movie, na?), but that’s another story, one which will later go in to a work of “fiction”. Actually, that’s relevant, too, because if that dream ever did come true and someone paid me to type a few hundred pages of something, that money was heading straight for you.

Anyway, I still remember the exact conversation which brought ING in to my life. I was teasing him for spending on his very gorgeous German car what most people spent on houses when he grew serious and told me that it was paid off. That he wasn’t shady or irresponsible and despite his infamously turning down an Ivy League med school, he was not stupid. “Believe it or not, I’m a saver,” he said. And he mentioned you. Orange, wonderful ING Direct-you. “I love my ING account,” he said, “more than all my others.”

That captured my attention. I worked for Bank of America while I was at UC Davis and then for Citibank just after graduating, when I was still procrastinating mightily about law school.

[Aside: I loved being a teller at BofA in the bay area. It was one of my favorite jobs, ever. It was so fun, I used to joke that if I won the lottery and could afford to do anything, I’d be a teller again, because I liked writing people’s balance information on Hello Kitty mini-memo paper and helping the Spanish-speaking customers, who were so old skool, they still came in with tiny, ecru-colored savings booklets for me to write in…my Punjabi customers…well, that could be a post itself. I loved BofA so much, that I have never left them, even though I could not bank with them in DC when I commenced grad school in 1999. I’m loyal, to a fault, and with that I can get back to my post, because if I’m devoted enough to stay with a bank that used to hold my financial aid checks arbitrarily, prevent me from using the ATM and otherwise cause me unbelievable amounts of inconvenience without my leaving, then I’m the kind of customer any company would want. I’ve been with Sprint for ten years; I’ve brought them my entire family and two ex-boyfriends. I’m one of those customers. I deliver.]

I had never, ever heard anyone declare that they “loved” any silly bank account. I thought that perhaps this had to do with the sort of kundi-kissing, kid-gloved treatment that uber-rich people get from their consumer bank-appointed handlers.

Wrong.

“No, I got my Orange account when they came out…and I was making less money than you do, now.” I was perplexed. What was in this Orange kool-aid? Knowing what you now know about my deeply-ingrained loyalties and preferences, you will not be surprised to learn that I was impressed with such a testimonial. I joined. Modest automatic transfers went from BofA to ING and when I got my really ridiculous consulting job, those transfers grew fatter. Now I was drunk off the kool-aid, too, since the drink was not some sweet orange punch but my beloved Peet’s Coffee.

Though ING is a branch-less, direct bank, they do have, of all things, a Cafe in a cute part of Philly. The interior has the familiar Orange ball, free internet access and exquisite coffee. It’s all so random, I know. But I dug it. What does Berkeley coffee (which I never get to drink on this coast) and an airy space to serve it in have to do with the business of banking? Not much, unless you were picking up some material about their products.

At the cafe, you couldn’t do anything with your accounts while sipping Peet’s. But that didn’t matter to me, because it was all so brilliant and subtle. I love checking my email. I love good coffee (which was CHEAP, btw). My virtual bank was giving me both, in one appealing bundle. I loved it. I loved it so much, I have a photo album of my first visit to ING illadelphia, and that’s where the picture for this post comes from. Whenever I visit Philly, the first place I go is ING cafe, for my coffee and bonding session with orange stuff.

But wait, there’s more to my love affair with ING. That savings account grew substantially and 18 months ago, when I had to make one of the most adult choices of my life and move out, to my first grown-up, big-girl apartment, my orange account facilitated that. Me, who had lived with parents until age 23, who had roommates every year after that (it’s $$$ to live in the city, y’all) who had never lived alone…I was going to move. And moving is expensive. And for once, I didn’t have to do the sheepish Indian-perpetual-child thing and call my Mom for scrill.

I had enough of it in my beloved ING Orange account to cover first, last, and deposit for an apartment in a very beautiful, affluent neighborhood. I had enough to pay for moving. I also had something I had never really experienced in my young, free-spirited, under-paid life: independence. And for that, ING grew priceless. I even opened another account with them just last week (what timing). I am loyal and after the thrill of all that apartment-related agency, I assumed I’d be with ING for years.

And then I saw this.

And now, I don’t think of Peet’s, or orange balls, or financial goodness. I think of an advertising campaign which perpetuates a mentality I find reprehensible. I think of how I am confused, because it is ING insurance in India which screwed up, and perhaps that is very different from ING Direct in Amreeka (hey, I’m not the Wharton grad in the bunker, I don’t know these things!), but when I was researching this post and I saw the site for ING Vysya, I immediately recognized an orange lion and very familiar fonts. My stomach knotted and I knew. I just knew I would no longer look at my own accounts quite the same way. And the cynical among you can say that I am one person and insignificant and you would be right. You could point out that ING doesn’t need me and my cute little accounts and you’d be correct.

But.

That guy I dated? He’s still with ING. And he loves little girls and hates the antiquated, ignorant, “daughters-as-burdens”-bullshit as much as I do, even though he’s Punjabi and they’re supposed to be the most son-loving brownies of them all, right? Ha. No. I don’t think he could love a nephew the way he adores that baby girl; if anyone even hinted that she was “loveable, but a burden” I think that person would soon have a few bruises to show for such stupidity.

He’s not married, he has no children, in fact all he has is his little niece. Whom he adores. Who, if something were to happen to her doting Uncle, would inherit all that money in those various ING accounts. So while my paltry interest in ING is of no concern, maybe his will be. You never know who might have one of these accounts, who might be disgusted enough to vote with their feet and move their assets elsewhere. If ING is sincere about looking in to the “objection” and addressing it, I hope they do so, soon. My inner cynic thinks they won’t give a shit about any of this and that is why I’m already looking for a less colorful, but more sensitive place to take my business. I loved you ING, but not enough to look the other way.

Regretfully,

your quondam fan-girl

anna at 11:55 PM in Business, Gender, Issues, Musings · 104 comment(s) · Direct link

February 05, 2008

Saffron Servitude and Kipling's Unbearable Burden

One of the many standard narratives populating accounts of the desi experience in the US is the difficulty in explaining the vast numbers of ‘servants’ performing a vast litany of semi-skilled labor in homes all over south asia. In the context of the American D.Y.I mentality (definitely eroded by our service economy), it seems incredibly strange to employ somebody for the purpose of cooking or taking one’s children to school—an unjustified expense when one has the time and the means of transportation to complete the task. NPR correspondent Eric Weiner entered this discussion as a result of being posted in Delhi and summarized his interactions with his ‘servant,’ “Kailash” in the New York Times. Cultural relativists, as critics of the post-modern regime in the humanities are wont to remark, do a disservice to academia when they uncritically accept what they see as a ‘cultural practice’ on the grounds of it simply belonging to a culture different from the observer’s own:

A few days later, the servant loped upstairs and reported for duty. He was skinny, alarmingly so, with mahogany skin and sharp features. His name was Kailash, and he was 11 years old. This was a cultural difference that I was not prepared to accept.

Weiner clumsily avoids the relativist’s folly by boldly going where perhaps a million other travel writers have gone, “It’s strange to me and feels wrong, so I can’t accept it.” But, like many before him, Weiner must eventually capitulate:

I started downstairs to confront the landlord, but then hesitated. I rationalized that if this boy, an orphan from a neighboring state, didn’t work for me, he would work for someone else, and who knows how that person would treat him? Washing my hands of Kailash seemed like a cop-out, or so I told myself.

It was at this point that I remembered a similar strain of teeth-gnashing from a writer of yesteryear:

Take up the White Man’s burden— Ye dare not stoop to less— Nor call too loud on Freedom To cloke your weariness;

“What?,” you say. “Weiner was assigned the post—he had no choice about what cultural practices he could accommodate.” These things are true, however, it does seem as if Weiner saw this story as following a predetermined path:

I always imagined that our relationship would follow a linear, screenplay trajectory. Orphaned Indian boy has fateful meeting with bighearted American; boy struggles to overcome disadvantaged youth; boy finally perseveres and is eternally grateful for bighearted American’s help.

Kipling was less sanguine about the chances for progression along this storyline—the native, in his opinion, was sure to wreck the grand venture just as it became almost tangible:

And when your goal is nearest The end for others sought, Watch sloth and heathen Folly Bring all your hopes to nought.

Weiner, too, finds his narrative halted in the middle stage—the part where the native finds his own bootstraps and puts his back into the pulling, for him, is curiously absent:

But more than a decade after I left India, Kailash and I were stuck in the second act…. …Thanks to my quarterly wire transfers, Kailash lives in a tiny apartment in Delhi that is too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer.

Kipling too felt the native’s hopelessness and ascribes this failure to appreciate such genuine and altruistic assistance to the native’s ‘nature’:

Your new-caught, sullen peoples, Half-devil and half-child.

Kailash, ungrateful rakshasa-child nature notwithstanding, apparently proves Kipling to be right—the native will live forever on the good graces of others while complaining all the while and perhaps directing vile non-violent protest at the benevolent others:

Take up the White Man’s burden— And reap his old reward: The blame of those ye better, The hate of those ye guard— The cry of hosts ye humour (Ah, slowly!) toward the light:— “Why brought he us from bondage, Our loved Egyptian night?”

Weiner corroborates but supplies what may he think of as an original caveat:

I have raised his expectations, a dangerous thing in a country of more than a billion restive souls.

The tea room is too lofty a goal for the young man—how dare Weiner introduce the hope of a more profitable line of work into Kailash’s life! Why, left unattended by Vestern journalists, a boy like Kailash might grow up to be a proper street-sweeper some day!

I find the author’s tone unsettling—as if Kailash did not possess the wherewithal to realize that he had everything to gain and that a life of beatings over poorly made chapatis was not optimal. Intentions in this case, as usual, are good but what is the cost of thinking in this manner—that it takes a western journalist’s benevolent intervention to salvage the life prospects of a disadvantaged Indian child and that this kind of assistance will ultimately lead to welfare-grubbing,sepia-toned, outstretched hands?

The “White Man’s Burden” beckons though, with a Nostradamus-like confidence in forecasting the alleged incompetence of the subject native. Weiner cannot deviate from the storyline—his is a Quixotic tilt at cultural windmills that stifle economic advancement by conditioning the native to depending on foreign largesse:

“O.K., Kailash,” I said, looking at the handsome 23-year-old who has replaced the scrawny boy of years ago. “As you wish.”

or as Kipling put it:

Take up the White Man’s burden— Ye dare not stoop to less— Nor call too loud on Freedom To cloke your weariness; By all ye cry or whisper, By all ye leave or do, The silent, sullen feebles Shall weigh your gods and you.

Nayagan at 05:39 PM in Musings · 22 comment(s) · Direct link

January 13, 2008

Prêt-à-Porter for Boyz

Quick, when was the last time I wrote a blog entry on the topic of high fashion for SM? Do some of you view me as a mere niche blogger who only writes about Antarctic exploration or freaky kids? These days, bloggers must remain sufficiently versatile so as to compete in a cut-throat business, one where the profit margins are razor thin and the trolls are out with knifes. And so I bring you news of designer Marc Jacobs’ spring/summer 2008 line (thanks for the tip “Meenbeen”):

Marc Jacobs can do anything he wants now. He’s even feeling confident enough to open up about a troubled private life that he once kept very private. And one expression of that confident spirit is the injection of willfulness he’s given to his collections. It’s a definite boon to the menswear in his second line, which can occasionally seem a little too close to the contents of College Boy’s closet. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but Jacobs has proved himself a virtuoso at distilling the talents of his various collaborators, and he has some keen ones at M. by M. We could rightly expect a little more. With this latest effort, we got it.

The menswear took the mixed-up, mumbled-up, shook-up world that Marc presented for his signature Spring collection and toned it down to one key discombobulation: asymmetry. [Link]

The above review was written during 2007’s Fashion Week in NYC. Since the majority of the clothes-buying-public didn’t attend Fashion Week, they will mostly base their opinion of his men’s clothing line on print ads seen in prominent men’s magazines, and based on the reviews of prominent fashion bloggers like myself. Some of you may recognize one of the models he has chosen to show off his new men’s line: the musician M.I.A. Below each photograph I will comment on the effectiveness of these ads from the perspective of a male with a disposable income.

In the above picture M.I.A. poses like that one potential child molester uncle in the family who the relatives all shield their kids from. Her clammy skin and disheveled hair seem to scream, “what!?” and I imagine that in the next frame (had it been published) her head and chest would have been lurching forward as she said just that into the camera. This look would suit a stockbroker or I-banker, the kind who will never be the best in his field, but has some cocaine to party with after work…so its all good. And those hands. Greedy, clutching, talon-like hands that will find a way to collect what’s coming to them. All things eventually find their way into those hands so you may as well just “give it up” without a struggle. Belt not needed for a look like this (in case you were wondering). The man wearing those pants shouldn’t have to be bothered with a belt anyways. Those pants need to be easy to pull down and easy to put on in a hurry when he needs to sneak out. And he sneaks out often. The tie? The subliminal message being sent by this ad is that even if you think the tie is ugly, you can still use it for something else. Like to tie something in place. Utilitarian clothing is in for 2008. [As a side note, this is the most attractive I’ve ever seen M.I.A. look, and I’ve seen her up close. I kept looking to see if there was a wire leading from one of those red sockets at the bottom left of the photograph, into her, to make her so electric].

What I like most about this shot is that with those juicy puckered lips and cocksure tilt of the head, M.I.A. captures the attitude you’d have to exhibit if you (a male) wore this outfit while grocery shopping on a Sunday, just as neighborhood churches were letting out. The jaws of young mothers navigating the produce section would drop open and they wouldn’t know whether to cover their children’s eyes or their own, as you gently squeezed the Roma tomatoes (needed for your vegetarian sandwich) to ensure proper ripeness. As you moved on to the frozen food aisle the goosebumps on your legs would stand at attention. You’d probably have to rub your hands together real fast and then touch your legs to warm them up, the way Pat Morita did to Daniel-san in The Karate Kid. By that time this one PTA mother, who seems to always be lurking at this grocery store, would have alerted the store’s rent-a-cop about your “provocative clothing.” Lucky for you the rent-a-cop is a woman who appreciates a man with good fashion sense. To placate “PTA mom” she offers to take you in the back to check your drivers license…or whatever. She gets off work in ten minutes anyways and is both a vegetarian and hungry. Marc Jacobs is on to something. I’m always looking for the perfect grocery shopping outfit.

This photograph, from as best as I can tell, is part of the same ad campaign. At first I didn’t understand because I don’t see any men’s clothing in this entire ad. And then, finally, I grasped the genius that is Marc Jacobs’. In this photograph M.I.A. is posing as a men’s “accessory.” If I dressed up in either of the two outfits featured about above, I would need a beautiful woman like this hanging off my arm, left nipple peaking out with confidence, daring someone to make a comment so she can slap them upside the head with that gold hand bag as she says, “and who gave you permission to look?” I would chime in with a “yeah punk. Don’t be looking at my girl’s chest.” I also like the fact that photographer Juergen Teller was able to capture M.I.A. in a shot where it looks like she has a “man arm” (as opposed to man hands). I’ve always appreciated women with strong muscular arms who’d be able to kick the ass of any other women that might be vying for my much sought after attention. And believe me, in a Marc Jacobs outfit, many women would be vying for my attention.

Finally, there is this shot above. Anna insisted I include this because unlike me, she didn’t find the Marc Jacobs ad campaign very effective…except for this lone picture which she found redeeming. I’m not sure. I hate to disagree with Anna (whose fashion credentials are legendary) in a public forum but I think that any fashion ad should really highlight either clothes or accessories. It is possible that if we were able to pan down M.I.A. might be wearing some tighty-whitey underwear that I would find appealing. This shot however, features only one mustard colored shirt and a magnifying glass. As a man, I don’t find a magnifying glass a very useful accessory (and I surely don’t want a magnified image of the inside of her mouth). Underwear is a must though, and so I wish we saw at least one ad featuring M.I.A. in the type of tighty-whiteys I’d consider wearing around the apartment after work.

In any case, I hope you enjoyed my fashion review. Since I am not known for my fashion reviews on this website, this is the last one you will probably see for a while.

abhi at 08:07 PM in Fashion, Humor, Music, Musings · 55 comment(s) · Direct link

January 10, 2008

A mind, a blog, and a vast emptiness

We often receive emails like the one below at the lonely North Dakota bunker that serves as Sepia Mutiny’s world blogging headquarters:

…I’d like to reach a wider audience and would really appreciate if you could link [to] my blog.

ps - I’m pretty good at keeping my site updated. Please take a look!

Thanks much!

To this, our standard response (if we have time to write one) is a polite “please read our F.A.Q.” But when I read the above email from a blogger, writing from a lonely bunker of his own, with nothing but his science and his blog…well, I’m not made of stone people. I’m quick to recognize a kindred spirit when I see one.

Plus, this guy’s research has direct bearing on my own work and career aspirations (and might save me some day):

I am a resident of Delhi, India, and a psychiatrist by profession (heal the mentally unwell). I’m also fond of the great outdoors, and cultures around the world. I’ll be spending 3.5 months in Antarctica winter of 2008, doing research at the Indian base station. Thru this blog, I hope to keep my friends and family updated on my stay in this incredible land.
—Sudhir Khandelwal [Link]

Of course he is going to be “good about updating his site!” What else does he have to do? :)

First, let’s let Sudhir explain, through his blog, why he is down in Antarctica:

I started thinking of Antarctica seriously after my expedition to Kailash-Mansarovar in the summer of 2006. It was Chitra, in fact, who perhaps jokingly asked me what next after Kailash Mansarovar! Antarctica? And then there were others who had visited Antarctica as members of the Indian Scientific Expedition encouraging me to submit a research proposal to the National Centre for Antarctic and Ocean Research, under the Ministry of Earth Sciences. I proposed to study the longitudinal changes in the general and psychological health of expedition members who stay in Antarctica for short-term (3 months) and long-term (15 months) along with their coping strategies including tobacco and alcohol consumption. After being short-listed, I was called to make a presentation, and to my extreme joy I was informed in August, 2007 to get ready for joining the Pre-Antarctica Induction Training programme of two weeks starting mid-September at Auli in Garhwal Himalayas under the Indo-Tibetan Border Police. [Link]

One of the seminal works about the psychological effects of long term isolated expeditions is a book I read years ago titled Bold Endeavors : Lessons from Polar and Space Exploration. Clinical observation of mental health (mental breakdown and group dynamics) during Antarctic expeditions, as well as long term submarine deployments, helps to inform NASA astronaut training as well as crew selection for the International Space Station (and eventually Lunar and Mars missions). Simply put, when you keep people isolated as a small group (and it is freezing outside), they start to get irritable. Studying that breakdown is of major importance. Look what happened just two weeks ago:

Without releasing names, the National Science Foundation, which runs the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station, confirmed that two men had to be evacuated from the base Christmas Day after what one person characterized as a “drunken Christmas punch-up.”

A C-130 Hercules military transport plane had to be dispatched from McMurdo Station, the main U.S. research base far to the north on the Antarctic coast, after one of the men suffered a broken jaw.

“There was an altercation between two people,” National Science Foundation spokesman Peter West told the New Zealand Herald. “There’s no indication of the cause or of the background between the two folks…” [Link]

Of equal importance in these studies is identifying and documenting the traits that some people possess that prevent them from breaking down like most would. I mean the natural-born-leader-types who always remain calm, collected, and stay focused on the mission at hand.

The ITBP instructors did their job of physically training us and giving us theoretical and practical demonstrations on hills and glacier with their customary sincerity and zeal. I have earlier experience ITBP personnel’s devotion and dedication in ample measures during my expedition to Kailash Mansarovar. They not only provided security and helping hand during some difficult treks and while crossing fast flowing river streams, but their presence alone was a big comfort.

I had a great time with young scientists of the group. They represented different fields about which I knew very little. But it was heartening to listen to their animated discussion on subjects like astrophysics, space physics, troposphere, ionosphere, geomagnetism etc. It appeared India’s future was secure in their hands. Some terms sounded familiar, but I was totally dumbfounded by a specialty called Limnology. I had not heard of it before. Want to hazard a guess what it is about? Well, it is the physical, chemical and biological study of water. [Link]

I am captivated by his many descriptions of the science conducted/discussed by his colleagues because of my own space and geology background, but I am equally captivated by his interpersonal observations:

Lot of activities going on now in Maitri. All scientists who are only for summer period are setting up their instruments and planning field visits. Though I have spent 2 weeks with many of them during Auli trip, however, now I feel I am senior to them; I almost feel as if they are intruders on our premises and facilities. I wonder if 26th team also felt that way when we came. May be not, since we came heralding their countdown for departing to India. How soon man starts claiming rights over anything which is not his even by any stretch of imagination.

Last night there was a movie, ‘Bhul-Bhulaiyyan’ starring Vidya Balan, Akshay Kumar and Shiney Ahuja. It is a remake of a Malayalam/Tamil movie of Priyadarshan. It is about multiple personality and Akshay Kumar plays a psychiatrist. Hence I stayed back for watching the movie. This evening I held an informal and small discussion group on Bollywood and multiple personality. People want me to hold such discussion groups regularly. I am not sure; I may ruffle some feathers. [Link]

I’m more than a little jealous of Sudhir’s assignment. A few of my co-workers have been down there and I might still get the chance to go someday. For now it is good to learn vicariously. For those of you that liked V.V.’s food post from yesterday, here is some more “food blogging:”

People coming here for summer or winter period develop all kinds of food fads in Antarctica. The Indian station, Maitri, has practically all varieties of food suiting every taste. I was surprised to find ‘gur’ (jaggery) here, though, it does not enjoy any popularity. I am its lone consumer. When ship comes here every December/January, it brings loads of food supplies to last till next one year. However, fresh fruits and vegetables last only for a few months and then it is all frozen stuff…

Current fads among many members of 26 Team are maggie noodles and eggs. They are now sick of eating frozen vegetables and daal (lentils) for last many months. So you frequently see them boiling maggie noodles or frying eggs. Packaged fruit juices still remain popular with most of the members. They all believe it provides quality vitamins. So they consume it 3-5 times a day. They are oblivious of the effects of preservatives, chemicals or sugar in it. Most of them have a habit of drying their paratha or poori with tissue before consuming; it is another matter that they would later put pure ghee on their chapaati or in daal. [Link]

Although Sudhir doesn’t realize it yet, I am adding an entirely new dimension to his research by writing this post. Chances are that like me, a few of you will find his blog interesting and start reading it often. His readership will grow from the few friends and family that currently visit, to one much larger. Then, he will feel the curse of the blogger: The need to satisfy the masses and the sometimes terrible consequences that follow. Then, he will have two psychiatry papers to publish instead of just one. I’m willing to sacrifice him in the name of science.

abhi at 12:03 AM in Humor, Musings, Science and Technology · 28 comment(s) · Direct link

January 07, 2008

V are all Rockstars

Abhi posted a link on the news tab which I just had to click…Guns N’ Roses? Sweet Child o’ Mine?

Indian-ishtyle??

I thought my brain would implode at the thought but I was hooked immediately. That song (and that group) dominate my memories of my freshman year in high school— mostly because I hated myself for secretly kind of liking it.

Fortunately, no one uncovered my shameful positivity towards this anthem of the popular set. I say “fortunately” because my friends wore flight jackets, smoked cloves and paired Fluevogs with our somber tweed uniforms; we listened to The Smiths, not this group we would later derisively hiss at for being ignorant and intolerant since it obviously had issues with homosexuality and people of color. Never mind that GnR’s lead guitarist Slash is half-black himself, to 14-year old me any group which was going to diss gay people was evil (I had just gotten over my crush on George Michael, my favorite member of Depeche Mode was Martin and I hearted Erasure…I really wanted to be Grace Adler when I grew up).

Part of the reason why this video— which is actually a wonderful commercial for Indian MTV-rival Channel V— jolted me like a quadruple-shot-latte was because none of the things I associate with Sweet Child o’ Mine are brown. High school, my friends from it, the TG parties I grimly attended with all my pledge sisters at UC Hippie…not brown. This video? Brown, and fabulously so.

This song has serious staying power. It went from being my bete noire twenty years ago to what I was giddily shouting the lyrics to a few months ago, at the National Geographic Halloween party. Upon observing how unanimously thrilled everyone aged 21-61 was the second those unmistakable, evocative first notes blared, I think I drunkenly decided that SCoM would be on my wedding reception play list, should I ever resolve my fear of adulthood and move beyond the existential crisis of “nomenclature for feminists”, i.e. “Do I take his name?”.

Wait, where was I? Oh, yes SCoM. Rather, “Ooooooh, woah-oooooh Sweeeet Chile of Miiiiiiiine”. A song so infectious, I’m sure every one of you has your own memory or five associated with it. I must say, the version we’re highlighting above is fantastic. Well, the first almost-half is. I loved it until 00:24. I just wanted more of those bliss-inducing strings. The vocals ripped me out of the euphoric haze I had been lifted in to and I was bewildered and slightly annoyed until Auntie’s hilarious, monosyllabic reaction at the end, which punctuated the minute nicely.

It’s a Monday and I thought you deserved something Happy; see how many times you watch it before you can tear yourself away. Me? Four. Just when you think something familiar can’t surprise you…

anna at 02:10 PM in Humor, Music, Musings, Video · 188 comment(s) · 1 reader(s) linked · Direct link

January 03, 2008

Thinking of Kenya

Outside, it is 15 degrees (that is what it feels like, according to Yahoo Weather) and though I thought I had bundled up successfully and strategically, walking towards the metro felt like lurching through a freezer.

I made it three doors down from my building before a cab pulled over; he mistook my violent shivering as a gesture for his attention.

I gratefully dove in to both the back seat and the dulcet, erudite tones of the BBC world service, which was emerging from several speakers at a volume that was on the wrong side of my comfort levels. If it hadn’t been the Beeb, it would’ve been unbearable.

While we waited for the light to change on Connecticut Avenue NW, I noticed how he was peering at me via the rear-view mirror. I was frantically trying to remember if I had my security badge at the bottom of my boat ‘n’ tote.

We sailed forward, in that smooth, sinking-in-to-pudding way which is unique to Town cars and he made mirror-eye-contact with me again. He smiled slightly.

“Are you from Nairobi?”

How odd. I am forever getting confused for the other kind of Sheba. “No, my parents are from India.”

He looked at me like I was daft.

“You’re Indian.”

It was a declaration, and an odd, exasperated one at that, not a question. I didn’t feel like playing this variation of the “Where are you from?” game on an empty and caffeine-free stomach so I tried to deflect.

“Um, are you from…Nairobi?”, I asked.

“No! I am Ethiopian!”

I nodded and looked down. As I’ve mentioned occasionally, there is a reason why I will never play poker; I can’t hide anything. My emotions display in high-def. I was confused.

“There are a lot of Indians in Nairobi,” he said, quietly, staring straight ahead. “You looked sad, I thought you were worried about your family. I was going to say, I hope they are safe.”

The news correspondent wrapped up their report at that moment…on Kenya.

I felt mortified, that I was so out of it I had not connected Kenya’s capital and current events. My embarrassment vanished when I realized how incredibly thoughtful and sensitive this stranger had been. The moment I entered the taxi, the BBC had commenced discussing the worrisome crisis in Nairobi, which erupted over last week’s questionable election process and results. He thought the news was what was affecting me.

He was reaching out to this American-born, momentarily confused, non-Kenyandesi. It’s not like he had to, but he did. It was a kind and sobering way to start my day.

::

Via the NYT:

Nairobi degenerated deeper into violence on Thursday as riot police used tear gas, batons and water cannons to turn back thousands of opposition supporters who tried to rally in the Kenyan capital. Protesters burned tires, smashed store windows and fought with the police across the city.

Some demonstrators showed restraint, yelling to the rowdier members in their ranks, “Weka mawe! Weka mawe!” which means, “Put down the stones.”

Other protesters torched businesses as police officers in padded suits chased them away from the downtown area.

“We will burn this country down!” screamed Abdullah Mohammed, a young protester. He promptly set fire to a mountain of tires.

One band of opposition supporters tore through a Nairobi slum, attacking residents and raping several women, residents said. The residents caught one of the thugs and hacked him to death. The man’s body lay on the street for some time because police officers said it was too dangerous to wade into the slum to retrieve it.

He lay on a dirt path between shanties with his face covered by plastic bags. Someone had stolen his shoes.

Turmoil came to Kenya after Mwai Kibaki narrowly and suspiciously won a highly-contested election. Observers and his opposition allege that it was rigged.

Frustration over this has begat violence, which has devastated the regularly “stable” and popular tourist destination. Inter-tribal enmity has exploded to the point where frightened people who were seeking refuge in a church were burned alive. The majority of those within were women and children, fifty of them perished.

More than 300 people have been killed in the violence and thousands of homes, shops and farms have been burned to the ground.

::

Previous coverage of Kenya on SM: Moja, Mbili, Tatu, Nne, Tano, Sita

anna at 01:00 PM in Musings · 37 comment(s) · Direct link

December 31, 2007

A Mutinous Look Back at 2007

Unlike many of you lucky bastards mutineers, I am at work today, so this might be one of the most compendious posts I will ever write (stop applauding, haterz).

For the last week or so, I kept hearing variations on “I can’t believe the year is almost over!”. I was feeling that way myself until I started to pore through our archives. Now I feel like this has been a very long year, one which lasted at least 365 days.

Can you even conceive of a time before Sanjaya? Believe it or not, there was, way back in the beginning of 2007.

Let that sink in.

NOW doesn’t it feel like January 17th—the last day that the mutiny was papaya-free— was a long time ago? Speaking of Sanjaya, he’s on the list. What list? The list I made of interesting, notable or significant posts from this year.

Without further contradiction of my use of the word “compendious”, here they are, for your procrastination and pleasure:

• Obama
• Sanjaya
• Gigi
• Aish
• Gogol
• Neyyappam
• Grace

• Rachel
• Hetal
• Kapila
• Lemurians
• Varsha
• DBD
• Scythians
• Anand Jon
• Padma
• Zed
• Whoa
• Vinay
• Sameer
• Kal
• Bobby
• Mushy
• Benazir
• Maya

See how I tried to be all slick and minimalist? Just first names? Yeah, that didn’t work for everything. Por ejemplo, the only post which has ever roared past the 1,000 comment mark: Whoa— is dating White not right? Simplifying that to just “Whoa” probably would not remind you of that infamous comment orgy.

A note about the first two bullets- I couldn’t settle on just ONE Sanjaya or Obama post, so I gave you all of them. You decide which one is your favorite…or don’t, I mean, it’s almost 5pm and some of you are already pre-pre-partying. For those who are interested in getting so contemplative, because this list is incomplete, feel free to comment about what stories stood out to you in 2007. Much happened at the Mutiny, including the spontaneous, natural and collective decision to rename and reframe an epithet and the experience it crudely conjured; FOB was replaced by the more respectful and apposite “DBD”, an acronym which means “Desh-born Desi”.

As this site grows, sometimes it’s difficult to remember that we are still a community; the birth of that acronym is one of my favorite moments of 2007 because despite SM evolving in to something quite different from what it once was, it indicated that change is not the same as an ending. That seems like a wonderful way to regard a day like today, a time like this, and a possibility-laden new year. Mutineers, I wish you beginnings, endings, changes, surprises, bliss and everything else you deserve, in 2008. :)

anna at 04:53 PM in Blog, Humor, Musings, Reviews, Theater · 90 comment(s) · Direct link

December 25, 2007

Ghosts of Christmas (and other times) past

I’m always a bit hesitant to write what might be viewed as a “personal” entry on these pages. I used to have my own personal blog for those types of musings but decided to give it up because of the pressures of a full time job and this blog. I also don’t want to be presumptuous and assume that the vast majority of SM readers care about my life (as opposed to my writings highlighting something of interest or importance to the South Asian American community). That being said, today is a holiday (when SM readership plummets for obvious reasons), and so I figured I’d get away with some personal blogging. Since many of you seemed to enjoy my previous entry about my arduous toils in my basement, I thought I would serve up one more entry based on the booty recovered from the nine tons of refuse we removed from down there over the last three days.

First off, I know some of you don’t believe me when I say I’m a Grinch. Do these pictures finally convince you? I could tell even at a young age that this new-fangled Santa Claus was an imposter:

Leave this one alone. He’s bad to the bone. (Age 1)

And Frosty? Please. The only large snowball I care to associate with is a snow cone with watermelon syrup: