Earlier this week I received a phone call from my mom asking me if I had heard of the egregious criminal activity that has caused many South Asian Americans in the DC area (specifically Northern Virginia’s Fairfax and Loudoun counties) to become worried and to take steps to protect their family jewels. My mom, probably typical of most desi moms, is overly sensitive to ANY criminal activity or health hazard (seemingly anywhere in the world) that has ANY chance to impact me…by whatever stretch of imagination. If Ebola breaks out in the Congo then I receive a call from my mom that evening. She just wants to make sure I am not hanging out with friends that have recently returned from the Congo…just to be safe. She is, of course, worried about her jewelry. It has all been safely relocated to a safety deposit box at an undisclosed bank.

When Raman Kumar’s Centreville home was burglarized in late February, he became an early victim in a crime spree that has continued across the county and into Loudoun, spiking last month.

“This is no ordinary burglary,” Kumar told the hundreds of residents, as well as numerous police officers and detectives, gathered at Colin Powell Elementary School in Centreville last Thursday, Oct. 29. He said the burglars who have been targeting the homes of South Asian residents for their gold jewelry were obviously well organized and well equipped with sophisticated equipment and information.

Three similar burglaries had been carried out that day, one in Oak Hill, one in Chantilly and another in South Riding, bringing the total to around 30. Two days earlier, two homes in Lorton had been burglarized, as well as one in Centreville and another in Fair Oaks. As in previous cases, the perpetrators broke in through back doors and windows in the late morning or afternoon and ransacked the master bedrooms, making off with gold jewelry, electronics and other valuables. In cases where homes were armed with security systems, those systems have been defeated. Any fake gold has been left behind…

Police believe South Asians are being targeted because they traditionally pass high-karat gold jewelry heirlooms from one generation to the next, and the price of gold now is especially high. Some victims have reported tens of thousands of dollars in losses. [link]

Since desi gold is on our minds, I would like to take the opportunity to address some fundamental “best practices” advice regarding gold within our community. Gold holds a special significance in desi culture and thus, demands a special discussion. I believe the following discussion will be even more useful if it can generate a conversation with our parents, many who are getting up there in age (hint: forward this post to them and see what they think):

1) Take a digital picture inventory of every valuable piece of gold (or otherwise) jewelry in your possession

You have collected a lot over your lifetime, loaned a lot out, and maybe even lost a lot. Take the time to document everything so you know what you have and can communicate to others what you may have had stolen. Plus, I know some of you will like flipping through an album of all your jewelry just because you can. Don’t be ashamed.

Twenty-five years ago (jeez…has it been that long?) many of our parents were up in arms over the portrayal of Hindus in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. They talked on the phone to their friends ahout it, wrote letters of complaint, etc. Now, scenes from that film are regularly referenced in pop culture. Even a Jewish Seder dinner can be an occasion for a good “Kali Ma” joke:

And Manish asked me by email the other day (to paraphrase), “couldn’t they have picked someone less Temple-of-Doomish to invite to the White House Diwali ceremony?” Compare here.

It would definitely have been some sight if the Hindu Priest, Narayanachar Digalakote, had gone “Kali Ma” on Obama. Some probably expected it. Here is Fox News’ picture of the day from that day. Fox News viewers enjoy pictures of Obama bowing.

Ali Eteraz is a name well known to the blogosphere, and of course, Sepia Mutiny. A Pakistani-born Muslim American, lawyer, writer, and activist, Ali’s writing has often been quoted here at Sepia Mutiny, and this Oct 13th Ali’s highly anticipated memoir Children of Dusthits a bookstore near you.

Children of Dust: A Memoir of Pakistan is a about a Pakistani male’s journey of autonomy set against the backdrop of global Islam and located deep inside Pakistan’s colorful but thus far neglected international diaspora. The timely piece of literature provides an engaged look at the pain, pathos, and laughter among Muslim-American lives otherwise obscured by abstract ideas such as “the clash of civilizations” and “the war of ideas.” … With gentle self deprecation Eteraz tells the story of every young person trying to figure out what they believe about religion, people, and life.[harper]

I’ll admit it, I opened the pages to Children of Dust with reluctant apprehension. But from the first page, Ali reels you in to a tale, beautifully prosaic, human, and intelligent. Intertwined with Islamic scholarship, youthful eagerness, self-effacing arrogance, defeated hopefulness, and sardonic humor, Children of Dust presents the struggles of a youth being raised Muslim and American and all the issues that come with it. The words are brilliantly laced, and easy to read. I found the book difficult to put down, staying up all night with a cup of chai engrossed in the adventure of Ali’s life. There was more than a few times where I verbally exclaimed or laughed at what I was reading.

Last Friday when President Obama held a press conference to acknowledge that he had received the Nobel Peace Prize I know many of you were expecting an…incident. Specifically, I imagined Kanye West jumping up to grab the mic from Obama and saying:

“YO OBAMA, IMMA GONNA LET YOU FINISH, BUT I JUST WANNA SAY THAT MARTIN LUTHER KING JR WAS THE BEST NOBEL PRIZE WINNER OF ALL TIME.”

And then I imagined a hail of gunfire by the Secret Service.

Well it looks as if Kanye West might have finally gotten the message and realized that his current path has him living firmly in the modes of passion and ignorance and moving away from enlightenment. He did not show up to the BET awards and he amazingly dropped out of the “Fame Kills” tour with Lady Gaga. Where in the world is Kanye? Where else? Reports have him cloistered away in Pondicherry, India learning Hinduism, or at least meditating and being all-around contemplative:

It seems West is taking some time out now for a religious retreat to reassess his life at a Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Pondicherry, a small coastal town in South India. According to an inside source he sees his life going in the wrong direction and feels badly about the VMA’s incident. [Link]

Remember the Newsweek article from a few weeks back titled, “We Are All Hindu Now?” Kanye is not alone. Lots of Americans are gravitating to some form of Hinduism, perhaps even unbeknownst to them:

According to a 2008 Pew Forum survey, 65 percent of us believe that “many religions can lead to eternal life”—including 37 percent of white evangelicals, the group most likely to believe that salvation is theirs alone. Also, the number of people who seek spiritual truth outside church is growing. Thirty percent of Americans call themselves “spiritual, not religious,” according to a 2009 NEWSWEEK Poll, up from 24 percent in 2005. Stephen Prothero, religion professor at Boston University, has long framed the American propensity for “the divine-deli-cafeteria religion” as “very much in the spirit of Hinduism. You’re not picking and choosing from different religions, because they’re all the same,” he says. “It isn’t about orthodoxy. It’s about whatever works. If going to yoga works, great—and if going to Catholic mass works, great. And if going to Catholic mass plus the yoga plus the Buddhist retreat works, that’s great, too.”… [Link]

Kal Penn e-mailed me this week. That’s right. THE Kal Penn. When I went to check my personal gmail account two days ago there was an e-mail from “Kalpen S. Modi” sitting in my inbox. I gotta admit. I got slightly Desi girl giddy.

Dear Friend [he called me friend!],

Last month, President Obama unveiled United We Serve, an extended call to service challenging all Americans to help lay a new foundation for growth in this country by engaging in sustained, meaningful community service.

To encourage participation in service this summer and beyond, the Serve.gov website features a volunteer matching platform called All For Good that allows people to search for volunteer opportunities based on location and interests … The Administration is seeking to further engage the Asian American and Pacific Islander community and amplify outreach efforts in the cause of volunteerism.

Kalpen Modi, Associate Director, White House Office of Public Engagement

I shortened the letter a bit, and as you may have guessed, it was a mass e-mail Kalpen sent. Not a personal one to me. All the same, the e-mail basically told me two things.

1. Kalpen Modi is now officially working in the White House.
2. Kalpen Modi might actually be doing some real work for the AAPI community. How could I tell? On Thursday’s conference call presenting the campaign to community leaders, Modi hosted it. Quite professionally. And nary a pot reference.

We’re in Ireland for a little holiday. Some of it is a little bit of long overdue (for me) literary tourism around Dublin, but we also spent several days in some of the beautiful western counties, doing some cycling and hiking, and checking out live music in village pubs. For the most part, there’s nothing very desi going on out there — there’s a sizeable South Asian population in Dublin, but rural western Ireland remains much more ethnically homogenous. A lot of little villages have Indian restaurants, but that’s about it.

Our best night in terms of live traditional Irish music was in a town called Clifden, in County Galway — and it was also the night where we had what you might call a ‘desi moment’.

Maybe it’s because I live in L.A. and everyone here is working on the latest greatest movie/script/t.v. pilot but I have a great idea for a docu-travel-reality show.

Picture this: As South Asians have slowly immigrated over and made their mark on America, they have also brought along their iconographic image of Mahatma Gandhi. The bronzed image of a walking and robed Gandhi, stick in hand, has been popping up all across the U.S. recently with a statue in almost every major city. Each statue erected has a unique associated story, for the most part an active first generation Indian American community rallying for a statue in their adopted hometown.

1. Riverside, CA: I started thinking about this when I literally stumbled across a Gandhi statue in front of City Hall in downtown Riverside, CA. The statue is surrounded by quotes, and plaques with Desi names surrounding it. I learned later, the local Muslim community was in uproar about the statue getting put up. A compromise was eventually reach.

Among the concessions the city was willing to make were naming a street beside the local mosque after a Muslim leader, and considering a sister-city relationship with a Pakistani city. Currently, the city has a sister relationship with Hyderabad, India.[rediff]

2. San Francisco, CA: On the Embarcadero, the statue is located right behind the Ferry Building by the trash dumpsters.

The statue was given to the city in 1988 by the Gandhi Memorial International Foundation, “a controversial non-profit organization run by Yogesh K. Gandhi,” who Gandhi family members claim was a “scam artist” and the White House called “clearly disreputable” when he asked to visit. Then in the 1990’s Yogesh then was the subject of an investigation, and the US Dept of Justice charged him with tax evasion, mail and wire fraud and perjury. The Foundation continued for a few years but then ran into more legal troubles as they found out Yogesh still had his hands in things.[yelp]

3. NYC, NY: At the southwest corner of Union Square, the statue was added in 1986, to mark Union Square’s history of social activism.

“Excuse me! Can I ask you a question?” the black 40-ish year old man said with a cell phone in his right hand as I walked out of Samosa House in Venice. It was closing time, and I had run in to grab a late night meal. He had been hitting on me earlier when I had first walked to the counter - he said he liked my red heels and dress, asked if I worked in an office, wondered what Indian food he should order. I had responded nicely yet curtly, and he had disappeared as I ordered my food to go. It seemed like he hadn’t ventured far, and was on the phone hovering around the entrance.

“Sure…” I responded hesitantly. The old me would have brushed him off, but I’ve been trying to be nicer this past year.

“Back when I lived in D.C. I always wondered this,” he answered deadpan, phone still open in hand. He didn’t hang up on his call. “What is the difference between Indian and Cherokee Indian?”

I looked at him to see if he was kidding. His expression was not kidding. “Well… uh…” I hesitated. “Cherokee Indians are indigenous to here, to America. And Indians … are from India.” I looked at him and he still looked confused. “You know India? As in the country around the world? On Asia, the continent?”

“Then why are they both called ‘Indian’?”

I bit my lip as I tried to figure out how to best answer his questions. Could he really not know the difference? Slowly, I said, “Well, when Christopher Columbus landed in America, he saw brown people and thought he had landed in India instead. He called the brown people he saw Indian. So it was an accident.”

“Brown people? Christopher Columbus?”

“Look. I’m late. My food is getting cold. I have to go.” I walked quickly to my car shaking my head exasperatedly, hoping he wasn’t following. I realized that there was no point in breaking it down for a man that needed 4th grade educating. And try as I might to be nice to every guy that approaches me… there’s a point where you just have to walk away.

+++

“You know, that’s a myth,” a friend said when I recounted the story to him. He was an activist for the indigenous community, and if anyone should know, I figured it would be him. “The word India wasn’t even around back in 1492. Research shows that the term Indian comes from when Columbus landed he referred to them as ‘una geste in Dios’ or in other words ‘a people of God.’”

Really? Could I have told the told the man at the Samosa House wrong? I did a little digging.

It is Mother’s Day. I was and am extraordinarily mothered; my family is full of remarkable women who love their children fiercely.

I love them back, especially my own mother, who among a great many other lessons, taught me to read. Last week, I read this in The New York Times (italics mine):

An 8-month-old baby, Kuberan, survived only because his mother somehow managed to breast-feed him until just hours before she died….

Early on April 21, [Sivadasa Jagadeeswaran] stepped into the boat with his wife and their two sons. Their eldest, age 4, was among the first to die. They threw the child into the sea. Then, his wife’s father died. Her two brothers jumped overboard, lured by the twinkling lights of what may have been a fishing trawler. His wife held on until the last day. She complained of thirst, but vomited when he gave her seawater. Soon, she was gone.

This afternoon, a single father to an only child, he cooed softly to the baby on the hospital bed. He gave him a bottle of milk. He checked to make sure his diapers weren’t wet. The baby giggled, oblivious to the misery around him.

I am not writing now to dissect the gruesome cadaver of this war. That has been done, and is being done, and will be done. The situation in Sri Lanka is complicated—so complicated. I am writing here because this family’s suffering, and its mother’s love, is not.

As soon as the South Asian Summit was over last Sunday, I headed over to the original Busboys and Poets for my first D.C. Sepia Mutiny Meetup. I was nervous since I was hosting solo and we were expecting about twenty people. As people slowly filtered in, I realized that not all twenty would show up - it would be intimate for sure.

As we sat there, this tall guy walked over to our table and wrote down something on a paper. He then signed to his two friends with his hands, and they pulled a table to join us. I walked over and introduced myself. It was clear that they were deaf, so I pulled out a stack of note cards and pens I always carry with me and placed them on the table next to me. The next three hours turned into the most fascinating conversation (using writing, speaking, and signing) about the intersection of being Desi and Deaf in an American world.

There was Shazia the Pakistani/Muslim/Californian who could speak verbally better than the other two, and served as a translator. There was Sharvedh who had just moved back to DC and was raised in South Africa in the same historical Indian neighborhood that Gandhi lived in. Finally, there was SM reader Karthik, the Desi Born Desi who had a Cochlear implant recently done and what English he spoke had an Indian deaf accent. They all represented a different aspect to being Desi, yet they were friends that were brought together in this parallel world of deafness.

“Do you know any Deaf Desis?” Shazia scrawled on a paper and handed to me. I didn’t. But seeing it on paper it struck me how I had just been at the South Asian Summit, listening to a panel on language access and how the Deaf community was not even mentioned. As activists, we fight for in-language resources for government agencies to provide in Hindi, Urdu, Bangla and other Desi languages for our limited English speaking population. But being deaf is a limited English speaking population too. What struck me was how we were having this South Asian Summit in DC talking about the needs of our community and how there was this Deaf Desi community that was not even represented at it.

In the most recent edition of The New Yorker, Atul Gawande has an absorbing article titled “Hellhole,” in which he reviews the effects of extreme isolation on the human mind. In particular, his article focuses on prisoners in America’s SuperMax facilities that spend upwards of 23 hours a day in solitary confinement. He also uses as examples, prisoners of war/hostages such as Terry Anderson and John McCain (who were isolated as a form of torture). American prisons purportedly use solitary confinement as a last ditch deterrent against the “worst of the worst”: that segment of the prison population which continues to commit crimes inside of the prison, gives the guards a hard time, or has successfully escaped previously. The problem is that the data shows that this approach simply doesn’t work. What’s more, it is as bad as any form of torture in that it irreversibly destroys the human brain:

Craig Haney, a psychology professor at the University of California at Santa Cruz, received rare permission to study a hundred randomly selected inmates at California’s Pelican Bay supermax, and noted a number of phenomena. First, after months or years of complete isolation, many prisoners “begin to lose the ability to initiate behavior of any kind—to organize their own lives around activity and purpose,” he writes. “Chronic apathy, lethargy, depression, and despair often result… . In extreme cases, prisoners may literally stop behaving,” becoming essentially catatonic.

Second, almost ninety per cent of these prisoners had difficulties with “irrational anger,” compared with just three per cent of prisoners in the general population. Haney attributed this to the extreme restriction, the totality of control, and the extended absence of any opportunity for happiness or joy. Many prisoners in solitary become consumed with revenge fantasies.

…EEG studies going back to the nineteen-sixties have shown diffuse slowing of brain waves in prisoners after a week or more of solitary confinement. In 1992, fifty-seven prisoners of war, released after an average of six months in detention camps in the former Yugoslavia, were examined using EEG-like tests. The recordings revealed brain abnormalities months afterward; the most severe were found in prisoners who had endured either head trauma sufficient to render them unconscious or, yes, solitary confinement. Without sustained social interaction, the human brain may become as impaired as one that has incurred a traumatic injury. [Link]

I find that last sentence particularly important given our modern culture of incessant Twittering and Facebook updates. If you think the reaction of the brain to social deprivation is bad now, just wait until you see the next generation of prisoners who not only have their friends and family but also their Twitter circle stripped from them. The most disturbing observation that Gawande makes is that none of this is a revelation. On the scientific front, Harry Harlow and his cruel experiments proved in the 1950s what harm isolation causes in monkeys. On the legal front, the U.S. Supreme Court opined in 1890 that solitary was no way to re-habilitate a criminal mind:

Justice Samuel Miller noted… “serious objections” to solitary confinement:

A considerable number of the prisoners fell, after even a short confinement, into a semi-fatuous condition, from which it was next to impossible to arouse them, and others became violently insane; others, still, committed suicide; while those who stood the ordeal better were not generally reformed, and in most cases did not recover sufficient mental activity to be of any subsequent service to the community. [Link]

This Sunday, I woke up to an email from a girlfriend who is not Desi. She said that there was a really thought-provoking article in the New York Post, which reminded her of some of our conversations. She thought I might enjoy it. Enjoy it? I could have written parts of it. It was about Dating While Brown— and dating other Browns, to be specific.

The piece was called, “MELTING NOT: Why Young People Like me Started Dating Within our Race”. In it, NYP reporter Raakhee Mirchandani wrote a sensitive, honest explanation of her views on love— and I can just imagine the nastiness she might be encountering because of it.

It’s never easy to put yourself out there, so I salute her for doing so. Besides, with this issue, you can’t win. You date outside your community and you’re either a sell-out, desperate or a coconut. Date within it and you’re insular, insecure and biased. Ugh. Can’t we all just get along? I hope we can remember to be kind to one another, as we discuss an issue which affects all of us, albeit in different ways. We’ve got to let love rule, or whatever Lenny screams. On to the story.

::

I know so many friends, whose experience mirrored this:

Growing up, the man in my dreams was a mystery; he was white, he was tall, he was dark, he was slick. He was always handsome. In my fantasy it didn’t matter if he was Catholic or Muslim, European or African, if he ate pigs or worshipped monkeys. It didn’t matter if he understood that I came from a rich tradition of Indian Hindus who were strict vegetarians, quietly conservative, obsessively dedicated to family and maniacal in their love for cheesy song-and-dance movies with mediocre acting and music.

And so when we met, freshman year at Boston University - the street smart Eastern European with a gorgeous smile, big heart and wicked sense of humor and the artsy Indian girl with a penchant for big hair, Bollywood and Biggie -it seemed like the perfect cross-continental match.

Ah, Biggie. I pour some of my Robitussin with Codeine out for you.

But somewhere along our six years together, the Indian girl from Jersey, who had naively promised him Catholic children, steak dinners and consistently defended his refusal to hang with my family as a simple difference in opinion, had a change of heart. And he did, too.

I remember him looking at me on an evening not far from our last and saying, “It’s like all of a sudden you became Indian.” In a way so quiet I didn’t even realize it was happening, the brown from my skin must have seeped in and colored my heart.

That line just slays me. I project emotions and explanations all over it. Is it accusatory? A blurt of hurt? Is becoming “Indian” a negative thing? The defending “his refusal to hang with my family” is also poignant. America may be a country of individuals, but most of us who are of South Asian descent are tightly tied to our families, for better or for worse. No one wants to be caught in that vise between one love and another.

Since my name is Anna, I love elephants. So, while meandering about SFGate.com, home of the beleaguered San Francisco Chronicle—the first newspaper I ever read— I saw a thumbnail of one which I couldn’t resist clicking. When I realized what I was looking at, I became sad. Obviously I had to inflict such depressing news on all of you:

RIP, Annabel: An elephant at Holland’s Emmen Zoo mourns at the edge of a ditch where 45-year-old Annabel, the zoo’s oldest elephant, fell in and died. The zoo said its elephants regularly stumble into the ditch that surrounds their compound and are able to climb out, but that Annabel was unable to. [SFGate]

At 45, Annabel was the zoo’s matriarch. When she fell on Sunday, she landed on her side, that’s why she was “unable” to get up or climb out.

A breakdown truck was called to lift her out of the ditch, but her rescuers couldn’t get her to stand up again. A vet said she had gone into a state of shock and decided to put her to sleep. [RadioNL]

Part of me is wondering why there is this potentially dangerous ditch in the first place? Asian elephants (like those at Emmen Zoo) are endangered enough without unnecessarily risking their lives in poorly-designed spaces. Poor Annabel.

I know elephants are amazing, sensitive creatures but this caption just emphasized that in such a way that I was jolted right out of my passive, blithely-surfing-the-net state. The other elephants are in mourning. After my father passed away, our two German Shepherds began howling at night, much to the discomfiture of my mother. One waited outside the patio door, where he had seen my father collapse while the other remained near the front, from where the ambulance had left.

So animals grieve, like we do. Maybe more than we do. I started eating before our dogs did. It may seem tie-dyed or crunchy, but I wonder what the zoo is doing for the surviving elephants, and their human caretakers. I’m not even going to get in to the politics of zoos or the ethical implications of containing such magnificent creatures in less than natural spaces for the entertainment and possible edification of humans. I just felt sad for this fallen matriarch, and wanted in some small way to remember an elephant who wasn’t just Asian, but probably South Asian. Be at peace, Annabel. May you romp and play at the Rainbow Bridge— and if you see my three late German Shepherds, tell them I miss them.

I’ve been away in Delhi for the past month where Slumdog Mania has hit with a frenzy, and stories of Frieda’s engagement/marriage or missing Slumdog kids were often the headline story. Oddly enough, soon after touching down stateside I realized that Slumdog Mania has taken the U.S. by storm too.

There were two signs that signaled to me this storm (besides of course the prolific amount of posts I had to catch up on here at SM). The first was when watching my nightly secret addiction, TMZ, I saw the infamous Anil Kapoor getting interviewed by paparazzi. Not Dev, not Frieda, but Anil. Kapoor. And not just once but a few times.

The second happened while flipping through the car radio, I heard what sounded like ‘Jai Ho’ but mangled. Because the girl was singing “Jai” pronounced as “Jay.” I was thrown off. It sounded like an evening of karaoke with the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack gone girl band.

Okay, so maybe the song isn’t that bad but I prefer the wholesome A.R. Rahman version. Nicole Scherzinger of the Pussycat Dolls (who I saw once at a secret M.I.A. show in Silverlake) apparently is a fan of Bollywood.

Nicole Scherzinger stated in a past interview with Desi Hits! that she wanted to go Bollywood, and now she has, and according to her the reward is plentiful. “It’s an honor to be able to collaborate with A.R. Rahman and be a part of the Slumdog Millionaire project in any way. The movie, the story, and the music was a gift and very spiritually uplifting for me. I can only hope and pray Slumdog Millionaire, and my version of ‘Jai Ho (You are my Destiny)’ touches and connects people all around the world”. [DesiHits!]

It is weird to see something that I saw as personal and desi go mainstream. It was just like the first time I heard M.I.A.’s Galang on a car commercial when she first hit the U.S. and I had this little pleasureful tummy flip. As if someone discovered my yummy little secret. But then when M.I.A.’s Paper Plane was picked up by the Pineapple Express trailer, my tummy just started feeling queasy. Seeing Slumdog Millionaire going through this process is giving me similar tummy flips - from when I watched the movie in an independent theatre back in the fall to sitting here watching Dev and Freida on the Tyra Banks show teaching Bollywood dances as I type this blog.

Abhi touched upon this effect earlier, but I wanted to know what all this Slumlovin’ fusion is doing to your tummy. Does it make you feel as uneasy as I do? Or does all the SM love reflect something more?

Earlier this month, the “25 Random Things About Me”-meme was so omnipresent on Facebook, even major papers like the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune discussed it. What, you haven’t heard of it? Wow. No wonder newspapers are going out of business! Well, here’s some background info from the grey lady, then:

…the latest digital fad — a chain-letter-cum-literary exercise called “25 Random Things About Me” — is threatening to consume what little remaining free time and privacy we have.

Here’s how it works: friends send you an e-mail message (or, on Facebook, “tag” you in a note posted to their profile) with 25 heartfelt observations about themselves — like “I named my son after a man I’ve never met” or “I once paid good money to see Whitesnake in concert” — along with instructions for you to follow suit. You are then expected to gin up your own clever list and foist it upon 25 people, including the friend who asked for it in the first place. [NYT]

The 25 things can be habits, goals, quirky facts— whatever. Everyone on Facebook seemed to be doing it, so much so that a backlash started. People used their status messages to denounce the meme and warn others from including them. Groups like “Stop Tagging Me in 25 Random Things Posts You Tards” were formed. But the lists weren’t really THAT bad. No one was forcing anyone to read them. Often, if you did, you’d end up learning fascinating things about the people whom you allegedly “know”.

That’s the thing about “25 Random Things About Me”: Once you stop being annoyed you realize that, at its best, it’s one of the more compelling — and, yes, even oddly inspiring — wastes of time to hit the Web in years. And let’s cut to the chase. Should we really be complaining about the inanity of this new trend? We’re a nation entertained by lolcats. [salon]

Word. Besides, it’s not like this is anything new:

“It’s a brainstorming exercise,” said Anne Trubek, an associate professor at Oberlin College who said she used to give nearly identical assignments 15 years ago to beginning writing students. “It’s used to get people to think about ideas without the pressure of developing a thesis or an argument.” [NYT]

For the last few years, every time I hang out with my crew its like “what’s up Macaca?” Or “Macaca puleez.” If one of them is acting ignorant I have to bust out with this derogatory term that we have appropriated from the Man and made our own. The distinction is clear: I love me my South Asian people. But I hate macacas.

Ok ok, I’m just kidding…and ripping off Chris Rock’s material a bit.

A few days ago one of our commenters made the following observation: “slumdog” is the new “macaca.” Bobby Jindal’s primetime response to Obama was given about 48 hours after Slumdog Millionaire mopped up at the Oscars. The most watched speech ever given by an Indian American occurred only two days after a huge audience watched a large cast of Indians take centerstage at an event embodying American culture. I think the combined effect of the two is greater than many people realize. Over the span of 48 hours desis literally dominated the airways. And, of course, that can be a double edged sword when you are a minority

On many websites and blogs, liberal commenters, who immediately pounced on Jindal’s poor performance to discredit his “rising star” hype, used the term “slumdog” to describe him. It wasn’t limited to liberals though. Conservative commenters and bloggers did the same exact thing. After Allen used it in Virginia, the term “Macaca” was denounced almost immediately, and to the best of my knowledge was never widely used by non-desis again. I get the feeling “slumdog” is going to have some legs, however. See this exchange today between the new Chairman of the RNC and a Guardian Angels founder turned conservative radio host Curtis Sliwa:

Did Steele say “friggin’ awesome?” The Republicans have publicly stated that part of their strategy to come back from the wilderness has to be to aggressively court the urban youth vote:

Newly elected Republican National Committee Chairman Michael S. Steele plans an “off the hook” public relations offensive to attract younger voters, especially blacks and Hispanics, by applying the party’s principles to “urban-suburban hip-hop settings.”

The RNC’s first black chairman will “surprise everyone” when updating the party’s image using the Internet and advertisements on radio, on television and in print, he told The Washington Times. [Link]

If this is part of his strategy I think he should fire whoever is advising him. Is it just me or does Steele come across like an old white guy trying to sound like he can speak like a young black guy?

Mainly I would like to hear from our readers. Have any of you been called “Slumdog,” even jokingly, in the past few days? Were you okay with it or did it bother you?

::

Sorry mutineers. Not enough RSVPs for me to justify driving 250 miles in inclement weather. Lesson for next time? PLEASE RSVP. To the four of you who did, my sincerest thanks and appreciation. I have emailed each of you.

The bad news is, the meetup is cancelled. The good news is, you can always bug Uncle Vinod to host another one…he still lives on this coast. ;)

::

UPDATE, FEBRUARY 5, 2009:

I’m bumping this post back up to the top because I need to confirm who is coming/to where/at what time. Doing this is easier than writing a new post…and THEN a reminder post, tomorrow.

There’s a lot of info in the comments below, and I don’t have the time, will, or reliable wifi to paste it all in a new post. Just scroll towards the bottom, where I’ve (hopefully) answered everyone’s questions.

Once you’ve read all that, if you could leave a comment (or send an email*) to indicate whether or not you are coming, that would be super helpful. One Three of you just emailed me for details about tomorrow, so I know he’s they’re in— that makes two four of us, who have RSVP’d. :)

If you can make it to Udipi in the Mission at 6:30, let us know! Since our group is smaller this time, I’m excited about actually being able to hear some of you…now who’s in?

*my name at this website dotty com.

::

Someone on my GChat list had an intriguing link included in their status message. I saw “inauguration”, and since that historic event is still very much on my mind, I clicked it. I was led to the Boston Globe’s website, to a feature called “The Big Picture: News Stories in Photographs”.

Yesterday was a historic day. On January 20th, 2009, Barack H. Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States of America - the first African-American ever to hold the office of U.S. Commander-in-Chief. The event was witnessed by well over one million attendees in chilly Washington D.C., and by many millions more through coverage on television and the Internet. Collected here are photographs of the event, the participants, and some of the witnesses around the world. (48 photos total)

Picture number 38 caught my attention, setting my browndar off before I could even read the caption underneath it (which I’ve quoted, well, underneath it):

Pakistani Christian children hold portraits of U.S. President-elect Barack Obama during a prayers ceremony for global peace in Islamabad, Pakistan on Tuesday, Jan. 20, 2009. (AP Photo) [Globe]

At first glance, I didn’t notice the word “Christian”. I just saw “Pakistani children”. I thought I’d just post the picture plus a quick blurb about where I found it, and isn’t it sweet, etc. But for obvious reasons, I started surfing around, and a rambling post was born.

I’ve never been to an inauguration, despite my decade in D.C. So, I set out on a special Presidential Inauguration bus route, via my special Presidential Inauguration Metro card, which took me to the security perimeter. From there I walked in frigid temperatures to get to the Presidential Inauguration Metro train which would, it turns out, NOT take me to my intended destination.

Due to crowd control concerns, WMATA quickly shut down two train stations while I was underground, in transit, and packed in so tightly with other would-be attendees, that I felt assaulted every time someone moved an elbow. Everyone was aware of a different station which had been closed earlier; they announced it was unexpectedly reopening just as we pulled away from it. Too late. At this point, they had closed the last three stations at which we could have exited and we were well past the stop we needed. I started to worry about logistics as previously cheery train inhabitants cursed under their breath.

I hastily exited the Metro the moment I was able to, and I still ended up on the wrong side of the Capitol building. I had just over an hour to trudge through brutal, 11 degree weather, while attempting to avoid idling charter buses spewing exhaust, forbidding barricades, chaotic Police checkpoints and of course, thousands of people who were alternately shivering in their Uggs or shouting “Woooo! Obama!”.

The only thing I could think about was how I was thisclose to missing the whole point of the day, the whole point of the last two years, and it was all because of my bad luck with Metro. I tried to be mindful and prepare myself for the worst; if I was too late to get through security or move through the sludge of confused people faster than one mile per hour, I could say that I tried. That I had experienced the cold and the crowds and the optimism which was muffled by scarves, earmuffs and gloves. Que sera, sera…

I barely expected to make it to my rooftop viewing party in time for pomp and circumstance. I certainly did not expect to see a copy of Obama’s speech before he delivered it. And I definitely did not expect to be in tears when our new President recognized a faith which I respect, but don’t practice.

One thing at a time.

The benediction at Barack Hussein Obama’s inauguration was given today by Rev. Joseph Lowery:

Joseph Echols Lowery (born October 6, 1921) is a minister in the United Methodist Church and leader in the American civil rights movement.

Lowery was pastor of the Warren Street United Methodist Church, in Mobile, Alabama from 1952 until 1961. His career in the civil rights movement began in the early 1950s in Mobile, Alabama. After Rosa Parks’ arrest in 1955, Lowery helped lead the Montgomery bus boycott. He headed the Alabama Civic Affairs Association, an organization devoted to the desegregation of buses and public places. In 1957, with Martin Luther King, Jr. Lowery founded the Southern Christian Leadership Conference and subsequently led the organization as its president from 1977 to 1997. [Link]

Without a doubt the most striking paragraph of the benediction (the full text of which can be found here) was the following:

Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day when black will not be asked to get in back, when brown can stick around … when yellow will be mellow … when the red man can get ahead, man; and when white will embrace what is right. That all those who do justice and love mercy say Amen. [Link]

The Atlantic has the absolute must read piece of the day (seriously) about the coming minority majority in America. In the rhetorically titled, “The End of White America?” Hua Hsu of Vassar College examines a basket of issues surrounding the idea that it is no longer even mildly desireable to be “white” in America. According to Hsu, white youth are trying desperately to mimic the cultures they see within minority groups as a means to escape the blandness of their “non-culture”:

Whether you describe it as the dawning of a post-racial age or just the end of white America, we’re approaching a profound demographic tipping point. According to an August 2008 report by the U.S. Census Bureau, those groups currently categorized as racial minorities—blacks and Hispanics, East Asians and South Asians—will account for a majority of the U.S. population by the year 2042. Among Americans under the age of 18, this shift is projected to take place in 2023, which means that every child born in the United States from here on out will belong to the first post-white generation.

Obviously, steadily ascending rates of interracial marriage complicate this picture, pointing toward what Michael Lind has described as the “beiging” of America. And it’s possible that “beige Americans” will self-identify as “white” in sufficient numbers to push the tipping point further into the future than the Census Bureau projects. But even if they do, whiteness will be a label adopted out of convenience and even indifference, rather than aspiration and necessity. For an earlier generation of minorities and immigrants, to be recognized as a “white American,” whether you were an Italian or a Pole or a Hungarian, was to enter the mainstream of American life; to be recognized as something else, as the Thind case suggests, was to be permanently excluded. As Bill Imada, head of the IW Group, a prominent Asian American communications and marketing company, puts it: “I think in the 1920s, 1930s, and 1940s, [for] anyone who immigrated, the aspiration was to blend in and be as American as possible so that white America wouldn’t be intimidated by them. They wanted to imitate white America as much as possible: learn English, go to church, go to the same schools.”

Today, the picture is far more complex. To take the most obvious example, whiteness is no longer a precondition for entry into the highest levels of public office. The son of Indian immigrants doesn’t have to become “white” in order to be elected governor of Louisiana. A half-Kenyan, half-Kansan politician can self-identify as black and be elected president of the United States. [Link]

The case of The United States v. Bhagat Singh Thind mentioned in the article (someone we’ve blogged of before) refers to the 1923 case in which an Indian American veteran argued that he should be considered white (a precondition to becoming a naturalized citizen) because Indians were descended from Aryans:

Associate Justice George Sutherland found that, while Thind, an Asian Indian, may have had “purity of Aryan blood” due to being “born in Village Taragarh Talawa,near Jandiala Guru, Amritsar, Punjab” and having “high caste” status he was not Caucasian in the “common understanding”, so he could not be included in the “statutory category as white persons”.[1] George Sutherland wrote in his summary: [Link]

I can’t contain myself, I HAVE to live-blog the Golden Globes. That statement itself might be a spoiler, I know. If you’re on PST, have this isht on DVR or otherwise loathe learning something before you’re supposed to, don’t go past the jump.

[And if you are a Wesssssider, then come on. You’re used to this, so no need to complain…I’m from there, I remember the feeling, but there’s nothing to be done. Except move here. Which is what I did. ;)]

If you’re on the right coast and feel like gettin’ your Mutiny on…party over here!

One of my little sister’s Air Force buddies in Colorado sent me an urgent email with the following important information:

I have been following Santa on NORAD via Twitter, to make sure my little cousins in every time zone got spoiled, but I managed to miss this part of his journey, so I’m grateful for the message. Maybe it all went down while we were distracted? Matters not.

Do you know why NORAD tracks Santa? It’s one of my favorite stories:

The tradition began in 1955 after a Colorado Springs-based Sears Roebuck & Co. advertisement for children to call Santa misprinted the telephone number. Instead of reaching Santa, the phone number put kids through to the CONAD Commander-in-Chief’s operations “hotline.” The Director of Operations at the time, Colonel Harry Shoup, had his staff check radar for indications of Santa making his way south from the North Pole. Children who called were given updates on his location, and a tradition was born…

In 1958, the governments of Canada and the United States created a bi-national air defense command for North America called the North American Aerospace Defense Command, also known as NORAD. NORAD inherited the tradition of tracking Santa.

Since that time, NORAD men, women, family and friends have selflessly volunteered their time to personally respond to Christmas Eve phone calls and emails from children. In addition, we now track Santa using the internet. Last year, millions of people who wanted to know Santa’s whereabouts visited the NORAD Tracks Santa website.

Finally, media from all over the world rely on NORAD as a trusted source to provide Christmas Eve updates on Santa’s journey. [link]

Isn’t that sweet? Fifty-three years ago, I’m sure Colonel Shoup and his staff could’ve done without the incessant phone calls thrown their way thanks to a printing mistake, but I love thinking about the moment when he realized what had happened and stepped up, and didn’t let a child down. What a mitzvah.

The shoe-throwing incident. People love the shoe-throwing incident. Now, I’m blogging about it here, despite the fact that it was an Iraqi who did it to a non-Desi. I am doing this for three reasons:

1) It brought back bad memories of my last trip to Kerala (more on that, after the jump)

2) We think of shoes as dirty and thus, disrespectful as well (AFAIK)

3) The Lobb-ber has received a marriage proposal for his act of bravado:

An Egyptian man said on Wednesday he was offering his 20-year-old daughter in marriage to Iraqi journalist Muntazer al-Zaidi, who threw his shoes at U.S. President George W. Bush in Baghdad on Sunday

The daughter, Amal Saad Gumaa, said she agreed with the idea. “This is something that would honor me. I would like to live in Iraq, especially if I were attached to this hero,” she told Reuters by telephone.

Her father, Saad Gumaa, said he had called Dergham, Zaidi’s brother, to tell him of the offer. “I find nothing more valuable than my daughter to offer to him, and I am prepared to provide her with everything needed for marriage,” he added.

Zaidi’s gesture has struck a chord across the Arab world, where President Bush is widely despised for invading Iraq in 2003 and for his support for Israel. [link]

Disrespecting someone with a shoe AND a potential “alliance” of families? Oh, that’s so brown, even if it’s not technically brown. Whatever mang, I’m down with the spirit and the letter.

It didn’t just strike a chord across the Arab world. A Professor of Technocultural Studies at my alma mater, U.C. Davis (go ags!), published the following thoughts in the Huffington Post (via Sunaina Maira of ASATA, the Alliance of South Asians Taking Action, whose website seems to be down):

Know what Bush was saying when al-Zeidi threw his shoes? “The war is not over. But … it is decidedly on its way to being won.”

And Muntadhar al-Zeidi lost it. Threw both his shoes, yelling that shoe #1 was ” a goodbye kiss from the Iraqi people!” His second shoe was “for the widows and orphans and all those killed in Iraq!”

This was a gift to the entire world. We all owe a debt to this 28-year old journalist who, for one beautiful moment, letting go of all rational calculation of the possible consequences, stood up and spoke truth to power.

He is currently being held by Iraqi security forces and faces an unknown fate. I would not want to be in his shoes right now. [link]

I’m not sure any of us would want to be in his position, right now:

Pakistan’s DAWN newspaper features a great investigative piece that details how its reporters tracked down (whereas other major papers failed) the family of Mohammed Ajmal “Babyface” Kasab (who may really be Mohammad Ajmal Amir) and listened to what they had to say. Kasab was, of course, the lone surviving gunman from the recent Mumbai attacks.

Ajmal Kasab…was supposed to belong to the village Faridkot in the Punjab. Media organisations such as the BBC and now the British newspaper Observer have done reports trying to ascertain the veracity of claims appearing in the media that the young man had a home there.

At the weekend, the Observer in England claimed that it had managed to locate the house everyone was looking for so desperately. Its correspondent said he had got hold of the voters’ roll which had the names of Amir Kasab and his wife, identified as Noor, as well as the numbers on the identity cards the couple carried…

However, the man who said he was Amir Kasab confirmed to Dawn that the young man whose face had been beamed over the media was his son.

For the next few minutes, the fifty-something man of medium build agonized over the reality that took time sinking in, amid sobs complaining about the raw deal the fate had given him and his family. [Dawn]

I have commented before on SM about how much I disagree with using the term “evil” to describe men like Ajmal Kasab. To call them “evil” or “insane” (without clinical proof of insanity) in my opinion gives society an undeserved excuse. It allows us to isolate them as others, as subhumans. It allows us to feel superior in thinking that we were born good whereas these men were born bad. Their “affliction” is seen as having zero probability of transmission to good people like us. It just cannot spread. You are born evil. Then you go and talk to their parents and you realize the difference between how we were nurtured and how they were nurtured can’t really be pinpointed except for a few wrong turns and bad decisions that cascade into fanatic acts. The father continued:

‘I was in denial for the first couple of days, saying to myself it could not have been my son,’ he told Dawn in the courtyard of his house in Faridkot, a village of about 2,500 people just a few kilometres from Deepalpur on the way to Kasur. ‘Now I have accepted it. This is the truth. I have seen the picture in the newspaper. This is my son Ajmal…’

Indian media reports ‘based on intelligence sources’ said the man was said to be a former Faridkot resident who left home a frustrated teenager about four years ago and went to Lahore…

After his brush with crime and criminals in Lahore, he is said to have run into and joined a religious group during a visit to Rawalpindi.

‘He had asked me for new clothes on Eid that I couldn’t provide him. He got angry and left.’ [Dawn]

It’s a ritual in my family: every evening at 7pm, we sit down with milky cups of kappi and we watch NBC’s Nightly News. Now that I live 3,000 miles to the right, I’ll be honest, I’m somewhat lazy and so the Bru/Taster’s Choice usually stays in the kitchen cupboards, but thanks to the magic of DVR, I never miss Brian Williams’ slightly nasal take on the day. For that— and a hundred other things, right now— I am grateful.

I cried while watching that segment, on the news. I cried again when I tracked down the clip and embedded it. I was so overcome with the awareness of how different my life has been, as well as by how excited these children were, to take imaginary flights on an old, grounded plane. Remember that? When our lives were just as shaped by what we imagined as by what is? When there was hardly a difference?

I’ve never had the sort of glamorous (or arduous…take your pick) job which requires any sort of air travel so I still like airports and airplanes. I always have. When I was 3.5, and we first moved to the Bay from Southern California, I used to beg my Father to take me to SFO, so I could watch the planes take off. A year later, when I went to India for the second time, I was elated to be on the plane vs. in the car, watching them, from afar. The simple idea of being in the sky thrilled me; the fact that I was transported to another world, one which reduced my parents to crying children themselves, only reinforced my sense of wonder at what an airplane could do.

We all have our individual reminders of how everything is utterly different, post-9/11. Almost all of us are now kindly “invited” to be actors in security theater— but that’s not when I’m hit with the “it’ll never be the same”-realization. I don’t feel that prickly, undeniable sadness when I’m putting my shoes back on after going through security or when I’m forced to remain in my seat for the final 30 minutes before landing at DCA. I feel it when I see the cockpit doors.

[Apologies this was delayed. It took me a while before I was ready to put pen to metaphorical paper on this subject]

As an American without hyphen I was gratified to see a consensus emerge around Obama as the better candidate, with even one of McCain’s own advisors crossing lines, and for Obama to emerge victorious. Given the state of the economy, I was pleased to see the candidate preferred by 4 out of 5 economists get the most votes.

But as a hyphenated American, after a campaign where I was repeatedly told I wasn’t a real American, I was thrilled to have the candidate more like me win. That’s a poor reason to choose a candidate, I know, but yes, I’m very tickled to think about the fact that the President of the United States will be a son of an immigrant, a man with a funny name.

I don’t vote based on personal appearance, but sure, I noticed that he’s roughly my height, weight and skin color (I’m better looking, but I wont hold that against him) and closer to my generation than that of my parents.

I don’t vote based on biography, but I appreciated that his father came to the USA to study, he grew up in an extended family, he know what it’s like to stay in touch with those you love over a noisy long distance telephone call. I didn’t think it would be possible that the President of the United States might have grown up and been hassled for being an American Born Confused something:

Even those [Illinois state] senators who seemed like natural allies treated Obama with nothing but enmity…dismissed him as cocky, elitist and… “a white man in blackface.” … Most frequently, they ridiculed Obama for his complex ethnicity. You figure out if you’re white or black yet, Barack, or still searching?… [WaPo]

[Apologies this was delayed. It took me a while to recover on Wednesday]

I was lucky enough to be at the official victory celebration of the Obama Campaign in Grant Park, Chicago Tuesday night. It was indeed an amazing experience.

The crowd was friendly and mellow. The air was one of expectation rather than suspense, since the outcome was over determined. I was passing through the various checkpoints when the networks called OH for Obama, bringing him to 194 electoral votes. Since the Pacific states would bring the total up to 271 FTW, everybody knew what would happen.

If the Cubs had won the World Series, the celebration would have been far more ecstatic and frenzied, with drunken people venting all the excitement that had been pent up during the games. This was very different, and far calmer than it appeared on TV.

People milled around, chatting, while watching CNN on the jumbotron. A cheer would go up every time a new state was called for Obama, and a few people cried when CNN finally called the election for him, but these were quiet tears of release leaking from the corners of peoples’ eyes, and not the ragged sobbing I had expected. I too was far calmer than I had expected, given all the energy I had put into the campaign in my life off-line.

One election day, when I was in elementary school, our teachers took us to the lobby to explain the voting process to us. We got to see the machine, which was an old fashioned machine with little levers for the candidates and a big red pull lever that opened and closed the curtain and committed your vote. One voter even offered to let us watch her vote, and our teacher sternly refused. “Voting is a private act, and these children should understand that!”

I was very jealous. At that time, nobody in our family could vote.

My parents still intended to move back to India and so they retained their Indian citizenship both out of patriotism and pragmatism, since they were considering buying a place before they actually resettled, and you could only own property then if you were a citizen. My sister and I, both born in the USA, were too young.

When I was around 11, my father became a citizen so that he could sponsor his parents to come and live with us. There was no fanfare about this, I don’t remember when he took the oath, the family didn’t go down and watch him. But voting, now that was special. I’m pretty sure I went down with him to the high school down the block, stood on line for an hour, and went into the voting booth with him. That first act of voting was wrapped up with family.

Then my grandfather became a citizen, so he could sponsor my aunt to come to America. I helped him study for the test, sitting with him on his bed and drilling the material as he apologized for the fact that he couldn’t learn it perfectly the first time. Grandpa had always had a mind like a steel trap and although we couldn’t have known it then, his struggles were actually the first symptoms of the Alzheimers that would become obvious in coming years.

I went into the polls with him, even though I was a teenager and already looked like I was in my 20s. When we got inside, Grandpa let me vote for him. I said, don’t you want to vote? He had such strong political opinions, I didn’t understand. He said, no, I trust you. I turned the knobs, asking him if he agreed, and then pulled the lever. This was the first vote I ever cast, at age 16. In retrospect, that vote was tinged with sadness.

12:46p.m. CST

There is really no explicit South Asian American angle to this post other than the fact the Sepia Mutiny’s U.S. Southern Region Bureau is located in Houston. Houston also has the largest desi population in the U.S. outside of NY/NJ, California, and Chicago. I have evacuated all of our staff but, as the bureau chief, have decided to stay behind and blog updates on this thread for as long as I have electrical power. Right now the eye of Ike is on a path to travel almost directly over our bureau.

I was looking for a bucket of food yesterday but the lines at the stores were too long. I was also looking for a shotgun in case I had to protect myself but I don’t know how to use one anyways so that was probably pointless (I’m not as cool as Omar unfortunately). Other than that I am just going to hunker down (Texans like this phrase) with my camera and video camera and document as much as I can (safely of course). When the storm passes I will try and see if there are any volunteer opportunities for people in more need. Luckily SM’s bureau is located on the second floor of a complex and is relatively well protected and just beyond the surge zone, so my mom is way more worried than I am. Here is the view of downtown from the parking garage:

View of Houston skyline: 12:30 p.m. CST, 9/12/08

I’ve been checking out StormPulse.com and the SciGuy at the Houston Chronicle for the best technical information on Ike. Stay tuned for more updates on this thread.

Twice a week, a very kind gentleman comes by with a nifty vacuum cleaner strapped to his back, to spruce up the floors. I say nifty because it looks more like a jet-pack or something a lot more fun than a mere appliance. Anyway, when he strolls in with his trademark, “Hell-oooooo!”, I know it is time to stand up and get out of his way. I usually just move to the other side of my desk and prepare myself for a minute or two of nothingness, but apparently, today will be…something. I hear a familiar voice, but I can’t make out the words above the din of the machine.

I turn around to see who is speaking to me. It is the one Pakistani man I work with, an uber-sweet coworker who likes to make halwa to bring to work, which he then guilts me in to eating—not the first portion, mind you; that goes to our other, “grown-up” coworkers. Oh, no—he comes by towards the end of mithai-madness and always authoritatively says, as he spoons at least three servings on to a paper plate he has helpfully brought with him, “I make you halwa. Eat.”

When I protest meekly, saying, “It’s too much!”, because I don’t want to waste food, he gives me the exact same look I get at home, from my Mom at the end of dinner.

“It’s so little. Why you make me put back in dish? If dish is empty, I can wash. Finish it. Be helpful. So I can wash. I not have all day.”

So, much in the same endearing, parental way he force-feeds me food which my tummy has no room for, he often comes by to “check on” me, the youngest brown member of the team (nine desis work here, total). To see, as he inimitably pronounces it, “how you arrrr DEW-wing!” When I moved away from my desk to facilitate vacuuming, he saw an opportunity and approached.

“Hallo En-ah!”

“Hi…Mm-…hi” I stammered, just barely resisting the urge to call him Uncle. I can’t bring myself to call him by his first name, which is Mohammad, so I just…well, call him nothing. Who cares if it’s a work environment? The man guilts and keeps tabs on me. Being on a first-name basis ain’t happenin’.

“How is your Mum? She in Kelly-for-nya? Or she visit home, maybe?”

I have always loved that: home. My heart immediately softens. No matter how many decades my late father lived in this country (three, if we’re counting), despite the American flag planted dramatically in our front yard, when he wasn’t communicating mindfully, he always said that about Kerala, too. Home.

“No, she is in California. She is well, thank you for asking.”

“MA!”

“WHAT!”

“Did you hear??”

“What? McCain?”

“YES! Aw, Man! It’s only 8 or so in California…I thought I’d get to tell you.”

“No. I am listening to the NPR. Family Radio has become annoying. That man thinks the world will end in three years.”

“SO???”

“So what?”

“What do YOU think? You were so curious about whom he’d pick…”

“I was really disappointed when I heard it…my heart just went down to the floor. What’s wrong with this old man, has he lost his brain or something? She is a young girl. No experience. She is Governor of state with 8000 population for only two years. What’s she know?”

“I think…Alaska has more people than—“

“Who cares! Don’t interrupt! Point is, I can manage things better than she can. This is guaranteed losing ticket.”

“You wanted Joe Lieberman, didn’t you?”

“I did!”

“And why is that, Mummy?”

“Because he is a Democrat. Was. I mean, he is independent. Also, he was so nice to you, when you met with him and his wife.”

“Awesome reasoning, Ma. Anyway, if not Sarah, then whom?”

“I would rather he gone for that…kid…the Indian…the governor…”

First of all: thank you for the opportunity to blog. I’m so excited!

And now, my post:

The city of Bangalore has banned dancing and live music in places that serve alcohol, according to this Indian Express article here.

And according to this friend of mine here:

one Abhi M., who along with famed playwright Girish Karnad and 100 other people, protested the outmoded rule. Karnad spaketh thus:

“It is tyranny of the police. It is against every artiste. Instead of going after criminals the police are going after musicians.”

[Note: Karnad’s first two lines rhyme. A true artiste, that one.]

Apparently Bangalore officials have decided to enforce a part of the decades-old Karnataka Excise Law that prohibits live music and dancing in places that sell alcohol. (Used to be, only the section barring women from dancing was enforced, which led critics to hire dancing eunuchs in bars across the city this past February. Too bad that wouldn’t even be clever this time around.)

Abhi tells me,

“it’s an outdated law that’s being dug up by immature and backward-thinking bureaucrats and cops.”

But those Bs and Cs have their defenses. Says Bangalore’s Police Commissioner in an NDTV article:

“There is no [dance] ban on discos. They have to obtain a license and they can function.”

The article goes on to say however, that not one such license has been granted in the past four years to the many places that have requested them, according to sources in the police department.

The law is being used to temper progress, and the upshot is that the city is confused. I saw it myself two years ago.

My friend Reshma recently emailed me to ask if I could highlight a fundraising event in NYC she was holding for Obama. Reshma, formerly of South Asians for Hillary and South Asians for Kerry, is one of the members of Barack Obama’s new Asian American Finance Committee (other members mentioned here). Normally I would have just placed the event info on our “Events Tab,” where you can highlight just about any desi-related event. There was something about this event that was different though and I couldn’t put my finger on it until I re-read her email again. Then it struck me that the event itself represents a political first…as far as I know. This is the first time that such a large group of Indian American “celebrities” is being deployed in favor of a Presidential candidate. I am putting quotes around the word celebrities not to minimize the successes of some of these individuals but rather to contrast their pull to what we traditionally think of as Hollywood political celebrities (e.g., George Clooney, Ben Affleck, Angelina Jolie, Jane Fonda, etc.). In the past, both parties have relied on wealthy DBDs such as Sant Chatwal or various tech entrepreneurs or medical doctors for their campaign donations (from mostly first generation Indian Americans). Obama and his committee are taking a different approach, perhaps because he doesn’t want McCain to call him D-Punjab.

In all the loud talk of unity amongst the campaigns there is at least one tear jerker, or sort of - a controversial Indian American supporter of Hillary Clinton, appears to have not found favour with the Illinois Senator Barack Obama in the post-union phase of the Democratic party for 2008 presidential elections.

Sant Chatwal, known as one of the most effective fund raiser among the Indian American money bags, is not in the list of Asian Americans Finance Committee officials announced by the Obama campaign. [Link]

Instead of enlisting only rich “uncles” to help bring in the cash from our community, Obama picked a much younger group and that younger group in turn thinks young desi celebs may be the way to bring in the cash for their candidate (although this is probably just one of many ways they are considering). Their target demographic appears to be very similar to the type that reads SM:

The recent issue of The New Yorker had a cute story, that I can totally relate to, about one particular G-Mail address account created four years ago:

On July 27, 2004, a friend invited Guru Raj to create a Google e-mail account. A recent graduate of the University of Virginia, Raj, then twenty-one, was watching the Democratic National Convention on a television in his parents’ basement, in Norcross, Georgia. The beta version of Gmail—available by invitation only—was less than four months old at the time, and largely unproved, but Raj’s U.V.A. e-mail account was set to expire in a few weeks, so he decided to give Gmail a try.

At first, Raj tried to create an address using his own name, but, remarkably, both gururaj @ gmail.com and rajguru @ gmail.com were already taken. So he tried the name of the young senator from Illinois who was giving the Democratic keynote address on TV. To his surprise, it worked, and, moments later, barackobama@gmail.com was quietly born. “I’m not some cute little Indian boy who grew up in America with political aspirations,” Raj, the first in his family to be born an American citizen, said recently. “I just thought it would be kind of funny to create an e-mail address based on a random senator whose name no one could spell…”

Over the next four years, as Gmail became the third most popular Webmail provider in the U.S. and Obama became a serious contender for the next President of the United States, Raj used the account for his personal e-mail. In the fall of 2006, he received, for the first time, a message intended for the Senator. By February, 2007, when Obama formally announced his candidacy, Raj was daily receiving dozens of misdirected notes from all over the world.[Link]

I found this anecdote rather funny because on my (now-defunct) personal blog I wrote of encountering the same problem. Back when G-Mail first came out I snapped up three addresses. Two of them were quite obscure but the third one was the equivalent of “smith @ gmail.com.” Needless to say, over the years I have received all kinds of random emails from people who intended their message for someone(s) else. For example, I get at least two marriage-related biodata emails (complete with pictures) each week. I also get lots of people following up on a job interviews or medical results. A lot of these emails come from India. I am always faced with a choice: do I help destiny along by informing the sender of the error or by remaining silent? I randomly go either way (I know, this is probably evil and megalomaniacal).

Raj, who now works for a software consulting company in Washington, D.C., never replied to these, or to any other e-mails meant for Obama, not even to tell an excited would-be pen pal that he is not, in fact, the Democrats’ presumptive Presidential nominee. “It just became an interesting portal into Americana,” he said. “From the beginning, I had no intention of manipulating anyone.” .[Link]

Yes! See, Raj gets it. Its just like being the postal worker whose job it is to open all the mail addressed to Santa Claus. Nobody expects him to fulfill the expectations of every letter (or even a few letters), but at least someone can bear witness (even if they are biodata packages).

I get an email from Salon daily; with over 2,690 pieces of unread mail* in my beleaguered GMail account, I’m likely to open these newsletter-y missives approximately twice a week. Those two instances hardly ever coincide with Sunday’s “I like to watch”-edition, but I was feeling peevish while waiting for the laaaast loooooad of laundry to dry at 2:30 am, so I thought, “why not peek…it might mention my beloved ‘Mad Men’, which was the best show ever until season two started and kind of weirded me out, man.”

Right.

So I’m skimming “Critics’ Picks”, and I see no shout-outs to AMC’s finest, but my finely-honed browndar immediately zooms in on the following blurb, about Bravo’s tatti-est reality show:

Jaclyn Smith on “Shear Genius”

“Shear Genius” (Wednesdays at 10 p.m. EDT) may be the weakest of Bravo’s professional reality competitions — the contestants are almost uniformly uninteresting, and the hairstyles they create are almost uniformly ugly. Even so, its host, former “Charlie’s Angels” star Jaclyn Smith, stands out as a kinder, gentler alternative to Bravo spokesmodels Heidi Klum and Padma Lakshmi. For some crazy reason, Smith has great wells of compassion for these bad people with their bad hairstyles. When she informs a hairstylist that it’s his or her “final cut” at the end of each episode, Smith’s eyes invariably well up with tears and her voice wavers as she carefully chooses a few comforting words as a send-off. Forget Klum’s curt “auf Wiedersehen” and Lakshmi’s indifferent “Pack your knives and go” — Smith’s tearful goodbyes seem to remind us, “What could be more human than empathizing with the untalented?” — Heather Havrilesky

Whoaaaa, there HH. I know that all girls are supposed to lose their minds over Charlie’s Angels (the inspiration for a million mediocre facebook pictures) and Grease (I will never understand the obsession with that film or its annoying-as-soulja boy-soundtrack), but are we giving the gorgeous Jaclyn a bit too much credit? Let’s not so soon forget or forgive that unfortunate casual line she released years ago— there’s a reason why so many pairs of elastic-waist pants give “mom jeans” a run for fug and part of that responsibility lies with the otherwise glamorous Jaclyn Smith.

Anyway, there is nothing wrong with Heidi. If anything, far too much is right with that woman. She has squeezed three babies out of that ridiculous body and she has the cutest, most impish smile. As for pulchritudinous Padma, girl, she ain’t indifferent or cold…she’s HIGH. The Mutiny could’ve told you that, last year:

According to a source who worked on the set of Top Chef, the ex-model turned trophy wife turned hostess Padma Lakshmi allegedly enjoys smoking pot on set, giving a whole new meaning to the term “Quickfire Challenge” — see, cause she’s allegedly lighting up a joint instead of a stove! Anyway. Exactly how often this happened is disputed, though we were assured it was allegedly “fairly regularly…” [BWE]

That explains the sloooow, slightly slurred speech and her gracious, always-ready appetite to try potentially smack-nasty food— it also provides an explanation for why she doesn’t share Ms. Smith’s penchant for saltwater…she’s happy!

There were two reasons that I was in Africa. The first one was that the mountain is there. I contend that every good journey involves a mountain high enough that it keeps a piece of you with it after you think you’ve gotten off. On top of the mountain is a doomed glacier of storied beauty that I needed to see before it melted into just a “once upon a time” memory described in a book or by an old man. The second reason I had long desired to come here was that my mother was born in East Africa (Uganda) and I wanted to feel a trace of what she once knew. Being under this sky, on this land, the pidgin that is Swahili ringing in my ears, I sought to better understand some part of her that ended when she was a teenager, a part that remained an unearthed root of my life.

Dar

The South Asian quarter (Uhindini) of Dar es Salaam is where you want to be if you have only one night in one of East Africa’s largest cities and you blog for a South Asian themed website whose readers expect you to work around the clock. It is also where the food is the best mix of Indian, Chinese, and East African. The gem dealer from Sri Lanka recognizes us as fellow guests of the dingy hotel. Your first night in a country should always be spent at a dingy hotel, otherwise you won’t learn how things in that country really work (such as how much cab fares to locations in the city should really cost). He tips us off to the fact that the best money exchange can be found next to the mosque at the end of that street. A good restaurant (I have the mutton) is directly next door to the hotel. The 34-year-old sits down with us at dinner and explains that if we want to find nice girls (why aren’t we married yet?) all we have to do is provide them with a little jewelry and some spending money. He swears that those two things will keep them satisfied and they won’t ever talk of divorce. I decide to keep my “blood diamond speech” under wraps just this once, even though Africa is the most appropriate place for it.

The Muslim friend I’m with tells me to stick with him for protection in this part of town. Five minutes later and three blocks north we pass the Pramukh Swami BAPS mandir, services just ending. “Your on my turf now,” I tell him.

Closer to the hotel again, it sounds like some bar or disco is playing Bob Marley. Sweet. I wanted to check out a bar here anyways and this one apparently has good music blaring on a Saturday night. As we get closer to the source I see that the music I am hearing is in fact emanating from a large group of women sitting on a mosque floor. Yeah, it definitely wasn’t Buffalo Soldier I was hearing. It is probably not polite for me to keep staring like this either.

When I travel to a new country, my eyes are always peeled for a desi sighting. My recent trip to Brazil was no different. This is the second BRIC nation I’ve visited (with Russia and China left to go) and having heard about Indian Oil Corp., Hindustan Petroleum, and Bharat Petroleum joint venture earlier this year to start ethanol production in Brazil, I thought I might spot other signs of investment. At the very least, I figured I would come across a Sindhi shopowner (the joke goes that even if you travel to the moon, you will meet a member of the diasporadic community of Indian traders, of which my family is a part).

But, there weren’t any Sindhis or Indians to speak of in Brazil. At least, we didn’t see any. (Well, there was one uncle type we ran into near the Ipanema farmer’s market, but he turned out to be a Mallu from New York, visiting his Brazilian wife’s family!)

We’d heard about Nataraj, the only Indian-run restaurant in Rio. It’s in Leblon, Rio’s most trendy residential neighborhood, and I figured we’d find a desi there. “It’s no good,” our New York uncle friend told us while he helped us shop for figs and sitaphal. “Don’t bother going.”

So we didn’t. (Now that I’m home, however, some scoping did yield a little write-up about Indian restaurants in South America here which pointed out that the restaurant is run by a family whose matriarch used to work for the British High Commission in Rio. “She had been doing special event catering for the embassy as a side interest and then one fine day she decided to open a restaurant - I’m glad she did. It takes courage to make a caipirinha with an indian twist.”

Dang. Missed opportunity for a good Sepia post. Next time I go to Rio, I’ll have to make it a point to go here.

So, Brazil is home to a multitude of skin colors, so it’s easy to mistake Brazilians for Indians and Indians for Brazilians, so much so that many times, people mistook me and my husband for Brazilians and spoke to us in Portugese. There were, however, a few exceptions.

In Salvador de Bahia, the northern city which was the first capital of Brazil, from 1549 to 1763, a photojournalist came up to us during the 2nd of July Independence Day celebrations. “Are you Indian?” he asked. “Yes,” we answered. “Can I take a picture of you? First time I’m seeing Indians in Salvador,” he said.

Wow. I felt like an intrepid explorer, though I was quite certain I couldn’t be the first Indian in Salvador.

I was proven right. Later that day, in Salvador, we were at Rafael Cine Foto in Pelhorino, trying to get our camera repaired—and ahem, negotiating for a better price—when the shopkeeper (whose English was limited) asked us, laughing, “Are you Indian?” (I guess we carry our reputation as bargain makers around with us, wherever we go!) Later, my mother mentioned that her once-in-a-while Brazilian cleaning lady told her that there are lots of Indians who own shops at the malls in Salvador. I guess I should have gone to the mall!

Despite my lack of desi human spottings, there was no dearth of Indian influence—mostly of the exotic India variety—to be found in Brazil. [A brief photo essay follows below the fold.]

Despite the central air in my apartment, last night was one of those nights when it was cooler outside than in. Because I live on the ground floor, I can’t leave my windows open while I’m out, and it gets stuffy sometimes. I threw open the windows, had dinner, and sat down in my favorite chair with my laptop in my lap.

All of a sudden, I heard voices yelling, screaming, somewhere really close, like my apartment had been broken into. I pushed the laptop aside, jumped up and scanned the room, startled, my heart racing, totally confused.

Then I heard racial epithets (fucking Bin Laden terrorist, etc), and laughter. Two white teenagers (in this town I’ve only encountered racist hostility from white folks, but that’s a matter of a whole nother post) had snuck up to my open windows, yelled, and run away. I hadn’t seen them because my lights were on and it was dark outside.

I walked up to my windows, cussed the kids out, slammed the windows shut and glowered, my tranquility disturbed, my sense of safety in my own home penetrated.

I remembered that, whenever I had lived on the first floor in the past, one roomate always kept a baseball bat handy to … repell unwanted visitors.

That was the end of the incident. It wasn’t a hate crime, I didn’t feel threatened or menaced, nothing really bad happened. It was just some high-spirited teenagers out for some racist fun. Still, it might be prudent to keep a bat around.

I can hear your voice, your brash, loud, excitable voice.

You are on the phone, making a precious, international phone call, damning someone or something in your inimitable Malayalam; the velocity with which you deliver words another generation will forget would make an auctioneer or a debater envious. As the conversation progresses, you grow louder, gleeful, more boisterous. I can discern happiness where others hear anger. Indeed, “Americans” fear your voice or find it disturbing; you are forever forced to clarify that you are not at all upset, that this is just. how. you. speak.

You just shouted your punchline and you have punctuated it with raucous laughter. As far as I’m concerned, someone might as well have cranked a Fisher-Price mobile to commence a saccharine rendition of Brahms’ lullaby; there are no audible sounds which I could ever find more soothing, which is why I wake only momentarily before nestling back in to the crook of the couch, where I am lying down.

It is a hot summer day and the fan is purring while whirring cool air around the room. I am sick, and that is why I am passed out instead of reading, my Saturday-afternoon activity of choice. The cough medicine I reluctantly swallowed makes my extremities tingle, I feel such velvet electricity when I stretch…and even with my arms extended and my longish legs splayed out, there is couch to spare, I don’t feel the armrests and that is a reminder that I am small. Safe. Monsters cannot eat you if all your body parts stay on the couch or bed, this is a rule which all children know innately.

A cute story, written up in the San Francisco weekly “Beyond Chron,” got sent my way today by my cousin. The story features my aunt (SM commenter “Yo Dad’s” sister). Here is how the story, written by a Barack Obama precinct captain, begins:

Barack Obama is no longer the icon of this presidential election. He has been quietly replaced by a widowed Indian immigrant mother from Fleetwood, Pennsylvania … at least for me. This is how that happened…

A couple of weeks before the Pennsylvania primary, one of Mrs. Trivedi’s doctor sons (the one in D.C.) wanted to travel back home to help with the election. She decided to help too. And one day, about a week before the election she walked into the office without me noticing.

I was then startled by a quiet voice.

“Hello, I’m Mrs. Trivedi and I’m here to help you.” (Seriously, that’s what she said.)

I smiled, introduced myself, and then showed her how to use the phone and she went at it. She completed several dozen calls and dutifully checked the appropriate boxes on the tracking sheets and then went home. [Link]

My first ever job (just before high school) was as a telemarketer. Despite the fact that the cause I was telemarketing for was a good one, the rejection was constant and demoralizing. At the end of each day I felt worthless. My boss just said, “stick to the script, it’s proven to work.” No, not in all cases. My aunt had it much worse as she read the Obama script:

She was back the next day, but the campaign had changed to a longer “persuasion” script, and by the time Mrs. Trivedi got through it, a whole lot of people had already hung up.

“It’s my accent,” she said.

It seemed that way to me too, and it bothered me. I knew the reaction of the people she was calling. While it wasn’t really racism, it just seemed a little too much like it. [Link]

So how did things turn out? Well, the script was flipped. This time, instead of summarizing, I am going to ask you all to click on the story and read what happened for yourselves.

I don’t know how I missed this article in the NYTimes when it came out a couple of weeks ago. Thankfully, a writer at Slate cited the article and how, with his wife tied to his hip, they duplicated this couple’s lifestyle for a single day. First, an excerpt from the original article:

TEN years ago, Michael Roach and Christie McNally, Buddhist teachers with a growing following in the United States and abroad, took vows never to separate, night or day.

By “never part,” they did not mean only their hearts or spirits. They meant their bodies as well. And they gave themselves a range of about 15 feet.

If they cannot be seated near each other on a plane, they do not get on. When she uses an airport restroom, he stands outside the door. And when they are here at home in their yurt in the Arizona desert, which has neither running water nor electricity, and he is inspired by an idea in the middle of the night, she rises from their bed and follows him to their office 100 yards down the road, so he can work.

Their partnership, they say, is celibate. [Link]

Admitedly I am terrified by the institution of marriage, even though I do hope to be married some day. I have Siddhartha-esque anxieties about the possibility that I may want to walk off into the woods some day. I emailed this story to four of my married-couple friends and three of the four responded with mild revulsion. “No freakin’ way,” to paraphrase. One of my friends responded that she had, due to circumstances, simulated this type of experience for stretches of days at a time, more than once since she’s been married (they travel a lot together). She also described it as soul-sucking to some degree. Even the Dalai Lama is a bit turned-off by the idea and wouldn’t allow it to be promoted in India:

… their practice — which even they admit is radical by the standards of the religious community whose ideas they aim to further — has sent shock waves through the Tibetan Buddhist community as far as the Dalai Lama himself, whose office indicated its disapproval of the living arrangement by rebuffing Mr. Roach’s attempt to teach at Dharamsala, India, in 2006. (In a letter, the office said his “unconventional behavior does not accord with His Holiness’s teachings and practices.”)… [Link]

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.

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]

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?

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’).

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):

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.

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:

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.

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?”

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:

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;

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].

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? :)

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.

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.

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:

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:

Where is Frosty’s left hand?

The last two days I have been performing back-breaking, grueling, utterly soul crushing labor…in my own house (well, my parents house). Have you guys ever read a news article about some reclusive old guy who had a lifelong hoarding problem (a.k.a syllogomania) and when police finally entered the house they found a rotting, partially eaten corpse buried underneath a pile of junk that was formerly on one side of the only navigable lane through the house? Yes? Then now you know what my dad is like (known as “Yo Dad” to some who read SM). My dad left with my mom for India earlier this week so I flew home to help my brother clean out the house without any resistance. I wanted to solve this looming crisis before my dad made the local news in the “odd news” segment. Over the last two days we’ve been cleaning out stuff (mostly stored in the basement) that spans back 40 years! I won’t bore you with descriptions of 20-year-old used shower curtains or “Indian luggage bags” filled with spiders. I will take you straight to the good stuff. First, check out these two cricket bats. I remember they were purchased on a trip to India in 1982/3 in Ahmedabad (I was ~7). Notice anything shocking on one of them?

Was I an angry militant batsman as a child?

Can someone please explain this to me? Why would a child’s cricket bat say Hitler on it? I can understand why the one on the right has Sunil Gavaskar’s name…but Hitler?? As best as I can guess, the bat makers meant to spell “Hitter” but misspelled it as “Hitler.” Why did my parents even buy me this cricket bat? This could REALLY come back to tank my candidacy if I ever run for office. This is a closet skeleton right up there with GW Bush’s and Obama’s cocaine use.

As much as left-coast-born-and-raised me loves living on the right side of this vast country, there is one situation which inspires a reaction which is more pathetic than independent— being sick. I’m not talking about the sniffles or an errant sneeze or three, I mean, 102 degree fever, rhinitis which resembles a broken faucet and exhaustion which is so powerful, Ambien is envious of its ability to force sleep. I mean, sick sick.

When you’re sick and at home (or near it, even), parents can do what they love to, they can fuss and scold while they bustle about making clucking noises and shaking their heads. There’s something so comforting about the cadence of a mildly-irritated, slightly-worried parent. I tune out the actual words and just follow along until I’ve reached the portal to that ever-running game of subconscious Chutes and Ladders, and then I slide back to baby-hood in a blissful blur.

Don’t hate. You totally do it, too. When you can, that is. But when you are 3,000 miles away, and you are surveying the destruction which is a charitable way to characterize one kleenex-strewn, studio apartment, there is no such succor. We modern, vesternized children who think we know so much, who move so far from mummydaddy, we do the only thing we can. We wallow during those brief moments we’re conscious, reconsider our stubborn and proud refusal to get married already and then, when it’s 4am and we’re awake because the drugs have worn off, we update our Facebook status with something miserable. What, you don’t? Well, I’m kinda glad I did that last thing. I woke up to a post on my wall which immediately cheered me…

I can only suggest the concoction foisted by many mother on her sick, jaded-by-alopathy children, kashayyam:

…and then there was a fantastic link to the substance he suggested.

Inji kashayam, a medicinal drink made with fresh ginger,pepper,coriander seeds and jaggery.This is mother in law’s famous recipe to make us all feel better when we are down with cold,indigestion or even nausea.Simple and easy to make…[link]

Ginger? Pepper? Jaggery? Awww, yeah. You know, I don’t know anything about cricket, I don’t watch Bollywood, I’ve never seen any of those 2nd gen experiments on celluloid which contain various combinations of “American”, “Desi” or “Chai”, but I’m brown in some very persistent, weird ways and this is one of them; I’m talking about the home remedy, the more random and bizarre, the better.

Back when I was a disdainful ten-year old, if you had told me that one day I’d be drinking, nay, CRAVING Jeera-vellam I wouldn’t have believed it. No way. Eeew. Not me. I was too cool for amber-colored water with icky masses of cumin seeds lurking at the bottom of a glass. And yet, there I was last year, 21 years older and determined to steep this mysterious drink, just so. Yes, I know it’s a brew so simple an idiot can make it, but that doesn’t lessen my anxiety, hokay? I was born here. That fact alone has me convinced that I will never be able to replicate my Mother’s legendary Meenkari-with-no-meen.

Anyway, thanks to a darling friend’s sympathetic post on my “wall”, here was another recipe which required ingredients from a store which probably also stocked ladoos (mmm…ladoos), a recipe which would probably work, if for only one reason (but it’s a powerful one, so one is all we need)— it was desi. And someone’s Mom used to make it. And it has nothing to do with medicine, over the counter or otherwise.

Placebo effect? Sure, I won’t dispute that at all. I also won’t dispute the ridiculously smug sense of satisfaction such a concoction summons, as if we have a secret, cultural-velvet-rope-thang. Those moments, when my brain is being boiled by a fever, and when I’m dazed, crazed and amazed at how good pepper, sugar and something I can’t pronounce which was allegedly smuggled in someone’s suitcase can taste…those are the moments when I am consummately down with my brown.

I have a big deadline right now, but I feel compelled to respond to this bulletin from the Chicago Police that asks people to “immediately report any or all … suspect activity” including note taking, camera usage, video usage and map usage. [via BoingBoing, link to flyer image].

Before 9/11 I would have said that this sort of thing makes me want to explode, but I’ve expurgated such language in the same way that I no longer say hello to friends named Jack at the airport. I’ll simply say that the bulletin makes me sad and upset. You know exactly whose photo taking will be reported as suspicious and whose wont; Chicago has the third largest South Asian American population in the country, there are plenty of browns to drop a dime about.

I’ve been on the receiving end of this myself. Once I took a pad and pen to the courtyard behind my office to try to figure out how to craft a memo for work and was interrupted by the police who said that there had been a report of “suspicious activity” namely somebody “suspicious” “taking notes”.

I showed them my note pad and explained my behavior (which wasn’t unusual for that area at all), but that wasn’t enough for them. They wanted my ID and then they followed me back to my office so that they could verify that I actually did “belong” there. All for sitting around on a nice spring day and writing on a pad. And this was in a liberal town where they actually decided to follow procedures rather than detain first and ask questions later.

I recently posted about a man in Tamil Nadu named P. Selvakumar who was advised by his astrologer to marry a dog to atone for his past cruelty; when he was younger, he had stoned a pair of mating dogs and then hung them from a tree, to die. After his deplorable act, he apparently lost his hearing and became paralyzed.

If only he had been the son of a powerful politician in Amreeka. Then he would have blessed enough to get away with it, grow up and continue to display very disturbing behavior!

You see, once upon a time mutineers, in a state far, far away…okay, it was Arkansas, but still, there was a teen who was wicked. His name was David Huckabee and while he was leading a boy scout camp in 1998, he murdered a defenseless dog.

Do you see where I’m going with this? Of course you do, clever readers. Because while some of you impugned my decision to post about P. Selvakumar’s wedding to Selvi the canine as an “about-as-veiled-as-that-one-belly-dancer-at-Prince-Cafe” dig at Hinduism, most of you realized that what haunted me was how the whole thing occurred because two dogs had been stoned and then strung from a tree. I love dogs. I’ve had three, all of whom sadly are gone. Out of an overwhelming sense of loss, I now stop and pet every pup who will have me; that is how much I love dogs. They are fiercely loving, ever adoring, loyal, fuzzy angels with paws.

Once, when I was a senior in college and considerably angst-ridden (for very good reason), I put “Strangeways Here We Come” on my turntable, dropped the needle and then dropped myself down on the lush, odd red carpet we were infamous for having installed in our ENTIRE Home. It was time for some emotional bloodletting, though I didn’t have any Johnette nearby.

When Morrissey started keening, I went still, except for the unceasing crying, of course. A few songs in to the album, I was vaguely aware of a strange noise but I was too morose to move. My eyes were closed. I was despondent. I really didn’t care.

But my wolf-German shepherd hybrid did. He had broke through the once-sturdy patio screen door in his haste and worry to get to me. I opened my eyes because of the oddest sensation—a very concerned puppy was licking all the NaCl off my face. Torn between being utterly grossed out (it was my first pet!) and utterly in love with such love (it was my first pet!), I chose the latter and sat up, as my dog visibly relaxed at my not-being-dead.

That’s what kind of sweetness dogs contain.

And maybe, just perhaps, the dog that David Huckabee executed had licked away some other kid’s tears. Even if it hadn’t, I’m sure it would have been inclined to, if it hadn’t been hung from a tree and left to choke to death by the son of a Preacher man.

I’m waiting in line at the “secret” coffee place I mentioned in a post once, on the phone with one of my closest friends.

“How are you? How’s the ankle?”, he asks.

“Blue and mediocre.”

“Wait, WHAT?”

“Well, I’m wearing a blue dress and it still hurts. Actually, I officially sound like an Ammachi/Naniji now, because my hip hurts constantly. Apparently, three months of limping will do that to you!”

“Smartypants, here I was worried you were ‘blue’ as in sad.”

“Tiny bit. Always am around the holidays.”

“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“No. Mom’s traveling, no one’s there.”

“What timing for a trip!”

“Well…we never really celebrated the holiday. My parents had that typical snarky comeback, you know, ‘only Americans would need a special day to be thankful for everything. Hmmph! We’re thankful daily!’…like that. So it was just a regular day at our house…with slightly different TV programs.”

“So you have not had this…tofurkey you sent me, on Facebook?”

“No. I don’t eat tofu.”

“You sound sad.”

“I guess I am, a little bit. Everyone’s rushing off with a suitcase and while I don’t really want to travel THIS week, it reminds me that they’re going to be with their family, and that does make me miss home. This is my first Thanksgiving when I’m not going anywhere. It’s a little depressing.”

“Well, now you know what a FOB feels like.”

Allow me to preempt someone from asking why I chose to write this story. No, really, let’s get it out of the way, this nimisham:

• Did this really have to be blogged?

• Slow news day?

• Aren’t X,Y and Q more important?

• And furthermore, doesn’t your lack of blogging X,Y and Q indicate that you are a heartless bitch who doesn’t care about Pakistan/the Nuke Deal/the environment/immigration??

Yes,

maybe,

perhaps and

refer to my finger, for that last one. It’s an extra-challenging week at work, so I can’t write anything dazzling, not that the performances which I usually phone in are sublime. I don’t have much time, but when something’s on my mind, it’s easier (read: cathartic) to type, so a “Musings” post it shall be.

Unless you were the last person to be found during hide and seek yesterday, you have heard the cringe-inducing-on-so-many-levels news about an Indian man “marrying” a dog (thanks, Aggiebabe). It is somewhat like the whole “Aish weds trees…twice”-fiasco…except in TMBWITW’s case, she was doing it to compensate for her apparently unfortunate nakshatram and not because she had killed two trees.

An Indian man has “married” a female dog, hoping the move will help atone for stoning two other dogs to death.

P Selvakumar, 33, said he had been cursed since the killings, suffering paralysis and a loss of hearing.

The wedding took place at a Hindu temple in Tamil Nadu state. The “bride” wore an orange sari with a flower garland and was fed a bun to celebrate.

Superstitious people in rural India sometimes organise weddings to animals in the hope of warding off curses.[BBC]

Buried among the hundreds of jokes which punsters are giddily guffawing over (enjoy your free pass to bitch about how the bride is a bitch…but more on that later) is to me the most appalling aspect of this story; this man killed two innocent, defenseless creatures.

I didn’t know how he killed them until I settled in to my seat on the subway this morning and found out that he had stoned them. That detail bothered me so much, because my imagination doesn’t need any assistance in recreating actual events. Have you ever seen an animal cowering in front of a human? Yelping and whimpering out of fear and pain? It’s heartbreaking, but that’s what this so-called man saw, as he brutally stoned two dogs. I remember the way our late German Shepherds looked terrified and anxious, when they were merely being scolded…and that was after they had committed capital offenses, like uprooting our only curry leaf plant.

I love the ACLU. I believe that a person shouldn’t be allowed to run for President of the United States unless they are a card-carrying member (as opposed to our current system where you have to be a member of the NRA). Likewise, I think that Human Rights Watch rocks and that any government that questions their findings or calls them inaccurate are doing so mostly because they are annoyed at being caught doing something pretty heinous. However, unlike some of my co-bloggers, I also think I support Musharraf’s intention to stay in power and am willing to forgive his autocratic moves for the time being. Why? Because countries like Iraq (and a few others I can think of) have taught the world a very important lesson in recent years. Insisting that they quickly transition to a democracy because its what we (sitting in our stable homes) are fortunate enough to enjoy, doesn’t always result in the best outcome for them or us. History has repeatedly shown that a weak central government is sometimes much worse for everyone than a dictator who, despite curtailing personal freedoms, provides stability for the vast majority. The key is that a path to an eventual transition or succession be clearly defined. The fact that Musharraf has not developed and cultivated a method for succession while he has been busy helping the U.S. fight its war in Afghanistan and Iraq is what has gotten him into trouble.

What was it that went wrong in Iraq? We foolishly believed (and by we I really mean those Neocons) that a community of exiled intellectuals could pick up where a brutal strongman (Hussein) left off. We learned the hard way that exiled intellectuals (like Bhutto and Sharif in the case of Pakistan) are out of touch with the needs of the masses and will end up fighting amongst themselves while emptying the state coffers. Hussein, just like Hitler and Kim Jong Il, was a very bad man responsible for the death of thousands of his own people. That isn’t why we invaded Iraq or decided that they needed to be democratized though. We invaded Iraq in the expectation that we’d bring about greater long-term stability for us (and for them as a secondary benefit). Nobody would suggest that Musharraf is anywhere near as bad as Hussein and the stability he has been providing is not bad, all things considered. And let’s not forget the reason he seized power in the first place and has been popular in Pakistan for most of his tenure:

Nawaz Sharif was also involved in corruption at the highest level during his tenure which brought further mistrust of the people towards his government. The Nawaz government launched a scheme called “Karz utaro, Mulk savaro” whose intent was to pay off debt of the nation through the Pakistani people’s pockets. Pakistanis took part aggressively and emotionally to help Pakistan pay off the debt. Many Pakistanis living abroad took part in this scheme extensively and sent millions (maybe billions) to help pay off the debt. Even the poor living in the country helped, to the extent that women sold their jewellery to help the cause, but to no avail. As of this date, it is not known what happened to the funds and the national debt never decreased. It is widely believed that the scheme was to benefit Nawaz Sharif & family, and not to pay off the country’s debt. [Link]

I was at this bar on Friday night and as I ordered my drink I noticed that American Gangster (which came out on Friday) was playing on every television in the joint, including the one behind the bartender. Is video piracy really this rampant? Anyways, the rest of the night I tried to not watch so I could see it in its entirety next weekend. Flash forward to Saturday morning. I was sitting on my couch scratching myself and all of a sudden I thought, “What happened to that smokin’ Piper Perabo from the movie Coyote Ugly? I mean, come on! There has got to be a way to get her back into some film. So I looked her up on IMDB and noted that she will be co-starring in a movie called Ashes which comes out next year. And THAT is where this rambling story finally finds its desi angle:

ASHES follows the story of two brothers from the inner city whose lives are unraveling. As one plummets deeper into mental illness, the other, Ashes, copes by throwing himself into the dangerous New York underworld. Ashes is torn between the family he is responsible for, and the community that consumes him. [Link]

Sepia Mutiny is currently trying to determine if the above drug use was prescribed by Doc 420

Click on the above image for the trailer. The film is directed by and stars Ajay Naidu of Office Space fame as the title character. All I can say is that it is about time there is an Indian American Gangsta film. I mean, the Cubans had Scarface, the Italians had The Godfather, African American’s have Denzel in American Gangter mentioned above. Why the hell has it taken THIS long for a story about the Indian American gangster experience that most of our readers have had at least minor brushes with? I know some of our readers will point to Maqbool as good Indian Gangter film but I ask you, if The Godfather had been only about Don Corleone’s time in Sicily would it be as relevant to Italian Americans? I didn’t think so. And so I eagerly await Naidu’s Ashes. It might finally take the “model” out of our minority. Plus Piper Perabo will be in it.

The always interesting Freakonomics Blog, hosted on the New York Times website, asked its readers a very critical question Wednesday (one I’ve laid awake many a night thinking about as I carefully weighed my career options): Why aren’t there more Indian American Professional Poker Players?

Whenever I see a poker tournament on TV or wander through a casino, I am always struck by a particular absence: there seem to be very few Indian-Americans playing poker. Considering that there are so many Indians of poker age in this country who thrive in finance, computer science, engineering, and other fields that incorporate math, probability, risk, etc. — i.e., the kind of fields that produce a lot of amateur and pro poker players — why should this be so?

I guess there are two separate questions:

1. Am I right in my perception that Indians are underrepresented?

2. If so, why is that the case?… [Link]

The author of the post, Stephen J. Dubner, first asks three people, including two “notable” Indians, to break it down for the audience:

Rafe Furst, our poker-playing friend, truth-seeker, and all-around smart guy; Sudhir Venkatesh, our sociologist friend who isn’t a big gambler (as far as I know), but is an Indian immigrant and perceptive observer; and Shubhodeep Pal, an 18-year-old from Dehradun, India, now studying at Singapore Management University (and who just happened to recently send in an interesting question by e-mail, having nothing to do with the topic of gambling). [Link]

Unfortunately, both Venkatesh and Pal give the obvious-half-of-the-answer without digging below the immediate surface. Also, from Pal’s answer it is clear that he is thinking like an Indian (which he is) and not an Indian American, a critical difference to this particular query that I hope is not lost on Dubner or his readers. Here are their responses:

Oh my god. I’m speechless, have no words, and my brain just froze. So pardon my terrible blogger protocol in just copying over from Wonkette.com:

The CIA has inexplicably come up with a logo for the “Terrorist Buster,” some sort of imaginary Christian cheerleader representing the DCI Counterterrorist Center. Take a better look at the logo, realize that this is actually happening, and then continue reading. We’ll wait for you. [Pause]. Ready?

THIS IS AN OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT LOGO?!

This is not a joke. I can’t believe this is not a joke. The CIA really did create a logo for a “Terrorist Buster” (who the hell would that be anyway? Is this related to those “If you see something, say something” campaigns? Does a counterterrorist center really need a logo? If yes, then THAT?!) and unveiled the logo on the official CIA website. Go see for yourself at www.cia.gov

As Wonkette goes on to point out, the logo looks like some mad, racist twisted version of the logo (after the jump) from the Ghostbusters movie. Goddamn. What would Peter Venkman say??

After finally deciphering and then completing the most challenging assignment I’ve had yet, I grabbed my badge and headed out. I wanted to take a little walk…I deserved to…I was done two hours before I expected to be and I felt a tiny sense of “Victory is mine!” because of it. Since I had skipped lunch, now was the perfect time to get some fresh air (and look for turning leaves). Once outside, I realized that today was the the day for our weekly Farmer’s Market. This made me mindful of how there were a finite number of Thursdays left before the weather would end the charming gathering of, oh, all of a dozen artisans and farmers, and that made me determined to appreciate everything even more. Excessive positivity (and the relief which blissfully arrives after meeting a deadline) inspired my lame ankle to try for whatever spring in my step I could muster. This was going to be nice.

I wasn’t looking for groceries, I was in search of a treat. I immediately recognized one when I saw a baker and his assistant arranging a decadent array of breads, scones, brownies, muffins and best of all…cookies. If I could list “home-made cookies” under my interests, I would. “C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me”, indeed. I spotted apple cinnamon, oatmeal raisin…then a few dozen peanut butter appeared…and then something which I couldn’t visually place, it was darker than the PB and didn’t have nuts dotting its smooth surface like so many allergy-inducing polka dots. Chocolate chip, my favorite hadn’t been unloaded yet. I smiled at the three women who were crowding the stand, impatient for the official start of the market. Oh yes, I’m not joking— you cannot sell anything until it is exactly 3pm and a bell has been rung. It’s a fair and thus lovely thing, apparently.

While the three, a duo and a single milled between me and those delectable baked petit morts, I observed the women as they observed the baker. Two were old enough to be my grandmother, and one of them had beautiful skin, bright reddish-orange lipstick and very pretty hair. She was so arresting, I couldn’t even look at the other two. I was fascinated, thinking silly AnnaThoughts like “I wonder what moisturizer she uses” and “I bet she wears lots of hats”. I was so transfixed, I almost missed what was occurring directly in front of us. Almost. Thanks to being perpetually high-strung, even things in my peripheral vision cause me to swivel and investigate, so that’s what commenced my micro-Monk-like-adventure: the gesture I saw, which I wish I hadn’t, while I was looking elsewhere.

October 31, 1984

“Mummy, Daddy can I dress up for Halloween this year?”

“No.  You are not allowed to participate in this ritual begging for candy.”

“Daddy, I meant for school…we’re supposed to…”

He eyed me suspiciously.  “I thought fifth grade would mean the end of such nonsense, but if you are supposed to…what do you need to wear”

I had thought about this.  Based on what the popular girls were last year, I decided…“I want to be a cheerleader!”

“Absolutely not.  Those skirts are indecent.”

“Caroline Auntie was a cheerleader!”

“In college.  When you’re in college, I’ll forbid you then, too.”

Nine-year old me promptly burst in to tears.  Later, my mother came to my room and helped me match a v-neck sweater from my old Catholic school uniform with a pleated skirt I usually wore to church—i.e. one which went to the middle of my knee.  She unpacked a box in my closet and wordlessly handed me my toy pom-poms.  My six-year old sister glared at her indignantly, so Mom rolled her eyes and did the same for her.  I was so excited.  Finally, a “cool” costume, one which didn’t involve an uncomfortable, weird-looking plastic mask to secure with an elastic band, from a pre-packaged ensemble.  I went to sleep feeling giddy.

The next morning, for the first time ever, I was tardy for school.  I don’t remember why, but I was.  When I walked in to class just before recess, everyone froze and stared at me.  The hopeful smile on my face dissolved; this year, the popular girls were all babies in cutesy pajamas with pacifiers around their necks.  I thought the weirdness in the air was due to my lame costume, but within a few minutes I discovered it was caused by something else entirely. 

The moment the bell rang, my desk was surrounded.  This couldn’t be good.  Was I going to get locked in a closet or a bathroom again? 

“Why are you here?”
“Yeah, we thought you weren’t coming.”
“Shouldn’t you be at home crying?”
“Mrs.  Doyle said you wouldn’t come in today.”

The questions assaulted me one after the other.  I was baffled. 

"Why…would…Mrs. Doyle say that?” I stammered.

“DUH, because Gandhi’s daughter got killed.”
“Isn’t she like your queen or something?  Or a Hindu God?”
“No you buttheads, she’s like the president of her country.”

At the end of the last sentence, the boy speaking gestured towards me.  When did they get so enlightened?  Last week, they asked if I was Cherokee and said “How” whenever I walked by, or pantomimed yowling war cries with their hands and mouth.

“She’s not the president of my country.  I’m…I’m from this country.  My president is Ronald Reagan.”

They got impatient and vaguely hostile.

“No, you’re Indian.  Mrs. Doyle said you were in mourning.”
“Did you not like her or something, is that why you don’t care?”
“I heard they dip her in milk before they burn her up.”
“Duh…that’s because they worship cows.”

I put my head down on my desk, as if we were playing “heads up, seven up”.   

“See?  She’s crying now…she is Indian.”

And with that they walked off, to do whatever it was that popular fifth-graders did.

Ah, Padma.

Padma, Padma, Padma.

Potentially Mallu (I thought you were TamBrahm!) beauty, accomplished author and Television ish-tar, you speak so uniquely and that takes some talent. What sort of talent, I haven’t a clue, but I’ll credit you anyway, because I’m fond of you like that.

A few years ago, you made every Desi man’s heart beat a little bit faster, from the joy of the improbable occurring; if a supermodel would marry an award-winning, uber-protective, “distinguished”-looking author, then everyone had hope (as long as they did something extraordinary. Or had a looooot of paisa). It was the ultimate Revenge fantasy and that’s exactly what it was, because the dream, it died. You and the man who defended your intellect, who insisted that you were being shortchanged by the focus on your outsides, you are…kaput.

So, what to do, except to follow the well-established mores of our culture. You don’t recall? I am happy to remind. Now comes the time when you cast your eyes downwards, marinate in the somber reality of failure and wait an appropriate time before you are back on the scene, the ultimate “Innocent Divorcee, no issue”. It is imperative that you be seen alone, that you not be photographed with strange men touching you, because if a potential groom from Madras or Bangalore sees that, chee, vat he vill think?

So it is paining me, Padma-akka (chechi?!) to see you emulate the controversial example of that Sarita Denzel Masala of Mississippi, especially since you chose to do that in the front row of the Marc Jacobs show, where everyone could see you! Aiyo! What’s the one thing your Amma told you, edi?

A slightly Anonymous Tipster operating via the chimney which is our News tab gifted me with a robust cup of breakfast-reading which perked me right up.

How’s that for two utterly unrelated metaphors? Huh? Yeeeah, boyee.

Now you are surely not asking, “what got you all twitchy and agitated, Anna?”, but I am going to gift you with an answer anyway! I’m hyper thanks to the latest advice column from Cary Tennis, which is published at Salon.

Today’s edition of Cary-wisdom is inspired by a letter writer (LW) who can be neatly summed up by the title of the column:

I don’t want to be a doctor!

Fair enough, LW. A good number of us did or didn’t, but I want to know more about you, even as part of me groans, knowing I will regret it and get all uber-bitch on your ass by the end of this.

Aug. 28, 2007 | Dear Cary,

I am 20 years old, go to a state university, and am severely confused on what I want to do in life.

When I was little, I wanted to be an “artist.” With the beret, paintbrushes and canvas. Then, I moved on. Sure, I loved art, and enjoyed it, and was good at it, but I realized I wasn’t exceptionally creative in that sense. So I wanted to be a journalist. That idea left as soon as it entered my mind in high school. Then, toward the lag end of high school, I got interested in becoming a doctor. It wasn’t out of some desire I had to cure the world or make lots of money. It was because of my parents.

My parents and my family are from the Indian subcontinent and are Muslim. In their minds, the best thing to be is a professional. Especially a doctor. My father always tells me that I should be a doctor to help people and to be independent. My dad works away from home and flies back to my family every three to four weeks. It’s a hard life for him, because he misses out on our lives. It’s important to him that I become independent and have the ability to work wherever I want to. So, in high school, I took some medical classes. I enjoyed them; they weren’t my favorite classes, but they were, I suppose, “all right.”

When I started applying for university, for my possible majors, I would alternate between political science and English. My mother would ask me to write “pre-medicine” next to the others. Therefore, when I got accepted, I was put into the pre-professional advising. I never truly desired to become a doctor. The only reason I wanted to become one was to help people. To fix them. So I kept going. I took biology, chemistry, bioethics.

Then, my sophomore year, last year, I fell apart. I took physics and organic chemistry. I was doing terribly in both. I made a 48 on my first exam in physics and a 63 in organic. I had to decide whether or not to drop physics. I eventually did, and I was so disappointed in myself. You see, I did well in high school. I took many Advanced Placement classes, made A’s, and was an excellent student. And I got burnt out. I just couldn’t force myself to work. I tried, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t care enough. So I eventually made a C in organic.

It was during this semester that I would get these sort of panic attacks. I would just cry and cry when thinking about how badly I was doing in life, in organic, in everything. This is what really scared me the most. I always prided myself on not stressing out, not freaking out, and doing well in what I was studying for. But here was a class that just broke me down into tears. I couldn’t study when I was like that.

Then, the spring semester began. I took the second part of organic. Struggled through it and was averaging a C in the class. Then I fell apart again. I made a 48 on my last test, which dropped me to a D. I had to make an amazing grade on the final. I didn’t start studying for the final until the night before because I had basically given up. I failed the class with an F. In all my other classes that semester, I made A’s and B’s.

My baby cousin at UCLA still hasn’t forgiven me for joining Facebook. His objection is not that I’m too old for it or that I lessen its “cool factor” with my elderly presence—he just hates the program and apparently I was the last person he knew and cared about, who was not on it. That had more to do with pragmatic causes than most anything else; I was happy on Friendster and consummately preferred it to MyAss or the more “global”/Brazilian Orkut. I didn’t have time to maintain profiles on a plethora of time-sucks. And most relevant of all, I couldn’t be bothered to get an “alumni” email addy from either of the schools I managed to graduate from…and once upon a time, you needed such official stuff to participate in the Facebook-orgy.

Not anymore. And so a few of you began inviting me to join it and I pointedly ignored such requests…until one of you was Facebook-stalking a guy you thought was sooo cute.

“What’s his friendster link?”, I asked.

“He’s not ON friendster…he’s only on Facebook!”

“Well, then I can’t see him.”

“But you just HAVE to see this one picture…I have a feeling you know his friend.”

“You know how I’ve never been a bridesmaid?”

“Yeah what does that have to do with anything??”

“I’m signing up for this bullshit right now, so A) you best marry his ass and B) I best be in some sort of poufy outfit, twitching out of boredom on an altar in a year or three.”

“Omg, whatever you want, just SIGN UP”

[Update: Uberdesi kindly sent us the link for the ad which inspired it all. Now you can freak out, too!]

The commercial barely disturbed my reverie; I’m thinking about how much I hate moving, and that is exactly what I’ll be doing at work tomorrow, as we prepare for some renovating which couldn’t come at a worse time. At first, I can’t figure out what this spot is advertising, it looks like college kids, seems to focus on shoes and just as I decide that it must be something to do with the latter, I see it.

A girl, in somewhat cute, patent, MaryJane-esque shoes, in a library like setting…using a stack of exactly and approximately half-a-dozen books four books to step on, to reach a higher shelf. Or something. My brain shorts, because I’m so shocked and my inner pragmatist is all, “That’s so unstable! You’re asking for a sprained ankle.” The thought which immediately chases that maternal scolding is, “Eeeek, that’s not very respectful.” And that is why the shoes are “somewhat” cute; I can’t disassociate their shiny happiness from the taboo, the disrespect.

It wasn’t always like this.

Believe it or not, despite all the other random Hindu-lite rituals I grew up with, I never was scolded for touching a book with my feet. I think this had to do with two things:

1) I loved books so much to begin with and was very careful with them, since I’m vaguely OCD about things getting dirty or ruined

2) My room wasn’t so cramped that books were ever on the floor. They were on shelves. Or my desk. Or my bedside table. The floor was for my clothes, much to my parents’ disgust.

I’m surprised that this is also something I didn’t learn from my sundry collection of Hindu ex-boyfriends, though I vaguely remember hearing about it once in a while. For whatever reason, it wasn’t expanded upon or elucidated.

It was you who informed me of this prohibition against disrespect, and it is you whom I think of, in my tiny studio apartment, when I’m trying to re-organize my bookshelves. I take everything out and stack it on the floor, because there’s no other place to put anything and then I dust, rearrange, etc…but once in a while, especially now when I’m hobbling so awkwardly, if my feet even graze the tiniest part of a book or magazine, I freeze, feel guilty and then think of these cultural mores.

Thanks, mutineers. You’ve given me one more thing to get neurotic about…aww, you shouldn’t have. ;)

My high-level point is, this website has changed how I consider or interpret things, in a significant way. I will never think of the Sepoy Mutiny, the word “mutineer”, paneer dosas, Lemurians, ketchup, Scythians or a thousand other things without being reminded of this space.

That’s why when one of you emailed us a tip, which said:

A quiz on Indian independence and the first question is quite, ahem, mutinous.

…which pointed us to a brief, enlightening quiz in the Economist, I smiled and had to see it for myself. Indeed, the first question was special and it’s why I wrote all of this, because I love words and I find them powerful.

When a word’s definition is altered so dramatically, it’s not trivial, not to me. The last word of the first question of that quiz now means something very precious, and it always will. I thought you should know that, because I’m grateful to you for amending the dictionary in my brain, to accommodate such a delightful mutation.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I got a “seven”. ;)

I was half-listening to NPR’s Day to Day today, when I heard the words, “because of his skin color” repeated a few times; predictably, that got my attention. It turned out that the man being discussed, Pedro Guzman, was developmentally disabled and had been mistakenly deported to Mexico. Because of his skin color.

A wrongly deported U.S. citizen who was missing for nearly three months in Mexico ate out of garbage cans, bathed in rivers and was repeatedly turned away by U.S. border agents when he tried to return to California, his family said Tuesday.

Pedro Guzman, 29, was picked up at the Calexico border crossing over the weekend. He was released to his family on Tuesday.[WaPo]

…yes, but according to Frank Stoltze at NPR, he was set free only after a court ordered it.

Guzman was shaking and stuttering and appeared traumatized, his family said at a news conference. Family members said they plan to seek medical attention for Guzman, who was not at the news conference.

“They took him whole but only returned half of him to me,” his mother, Maria Carbajal, said in Spanish while crying. “The government is responsible for this.” [WaPo]

To hear his Mother weep on the radio was painful. On NPR, she said that “he may be back home, but he is not the same.” His brother mentioned that Guzman is now afraid of people.

“What a nightmare,” I thought, and I was reminded immediately of some of us, and how black humor has permeated our banter with each other, with friends who aren’t citizens. “Be careful, you’ll get deported!” and the like are now uttered frequently and followed with uneasy laughter.

Guzman’s ordeal commenced in May, after he completed jail time for trespassing.

Mr. Guzman had served about 20 days of a jail sentence for misdemeanor trespassing and vandalism until May 11, when, in a screening of inmates’ status, he apparently indicated he was from Mexico and was turned over to the immigration agency, which deported him to Tijuana. [NYT]

The Los Angeles county jail authorities summarily deported him without bothering to check his birth records, which would’ve proven that he was born in Los Angeles. Of course, these same authorities are insisting that he showed “no signs of illness”.

Guzman has issues even remembering his family’s phone number, which left him lost to forage through trash in Tijuana, while his relatives desperately searched for him, for almost three months.

Said Guzman’s attorney from the ACLU:

This government deported Pedro Guzman because of his skin color. Did not believe him when he said he was a U.S. citizen, born in California, because of his skin color. [NPR]

I keed. Despite my erstwhile devotion to all things Italian and denim, I do not think that there is ANYTHING which could persuade me to wear this unfortunate schmata— and that’s not because I’m conservative or unwilling to experiment for the sake of fashion.

Kanjeevaram, my beloved, politically incorrect, guilt-inducing Kanjeevaram, is heavy and inflexible enough; so how on earth does this thing WORK? Even if it is one of those new-fangled, “lazy saris” (as my Mother calls them), which is essentially a wrap-around, pre-pleated bottom with pallu attached, it’s still not easy enough.

I’d feel mummified.

Swaddled.

Slow.

Uncomfortable, and reminded of what it feels like to get x-rays, with that heavy protective blanket on top of me. Except at least when I’m getting x-rayed, I’m perfectly still. GAH. Yes, this is freaking me out, man. Must increase the drugs…

Said one fantastically-named blogher:

After color changing saree, pocket saree, it’s now turn for a Denim Silk Saree.

Sri Kumaran Stores, once a leading name in the garments business now seems desperate for market share. So out comes thinking caps (or is it cowboy hats) and innovation for the sake of it. In contrast to the appealing RMKV’s 50,000 color/ reversible saree, the concept as well as communication is a mild put off!

Incidentally, she has a pic of a very public version of this ad; a billboard which has some serendipitous placement, with regards to local greenery. Wait a second, what the— there’s a reversible sari?

My Mother is a disgrace I tell you. A disgrace. I’m always the last to know about such sartorial innovation. How someone who wears no makeup and has never thought to read a fashion magazine bore me, I have no idea. I’m terrified that whatever it is she has will skip a generation though, and that MY daughter will be a fearsome, dreaded rapscallion of a tomboy. Obviously, my Mother is praying for exactly this, as divine revenge for having to put up with me for 32 girly, glittery, glossy years. But I digress (and I must, for truly, it isn’t a post of mine, if I don’t!).

One final note: how the hell is this suitable for elders? Because they don’t move much? Give me a set sari over this isht, any day.

::

Via Maisnon, Lizzie and Yindia Uncut…thanks all. Or, um, in this case, y’all.

I wrote a post this weekend which questioned certain commenters’ assertions regarding how “hot Desi girls seem to end up with White guys”. We discussed that misconception as well as…well, a few dozen other subjects, but that’s natural over the course of 1,349 comments. One sub-thread which I followed avidly involved I-bankers and their (for some) elusive prey: the skinny, hyper-maintained, hot brown girl with stick-straight hair.

Some of you compassionately responded to your banking brethren, when they plaintively admitted that they weren’t sure where to locate their loins’ fondest desire; instructions, right down to locations, days of the week and yes, auspicious times of day (yo, are we brown or are we BROWN) were offered and happily accepted. Much like the original exchange which inspired my post on interracial dating, which is where this comedy of heir-ers was going down, what I noticed was that these weren’t one-off sentiments. To me, that made them difficult to dismiss.

The one word which kept surfacing, repeatedly, insistently, was skinny.

Predictably, evolved mutineers were outraged and immediately broadcasted it; even more predictable than that, the obligatory, “I can’t help it, it’s just what ruins my boxers”- volley occurred, so that there was essentially a stalemate. Around skinny. While all of them pondered if it was okay to come out and say that “skinny” was a requirement, and whether such a requiring was nothing to be ashamed of, I was transfixed by something else which was related, but not discussed.

What did skinny mean in this context?

To some, Kate Moss defines skinny. To others, the woman who is pictured on our left qualifies.

I like to know exactly what I’m offended by, before I gift someone with a new orifice, so I couldn’t get my outrage-on— not until this question was answered. Yes, yes…we should all eschew superficial everything and it’s terrible that we’re judging female books by their covers, but it’s also a gross reality. And I wanted to know how realistic these I(yer) bankers were.

There was another snag—we were discussing Manhattan.

It’s a rarified world and understandably, the benchmarks are different. Everything is relative (and apparently, if you are an Iyengar reading SM, YOU are all relatives…oy, how I wish that I could actually link to relevant comments from MY OWN POST, which would make my attempts at wit successful vs. inscrutable).

In most cities, D.C. included, my 450 sq ft studio is tiny. In Manhattan, my friend is thrilled to have that much space for her ONE-BEDROOM. In most cities, making six figures is awesome. In Manhattan, it barely affords the afore-mentioned shoe-box, rent-wise and that’s if you limit your methods for self-intoxicating to PBR (note: life is too short for PBR, my darlinks). Anyway, if everything is tougher, better, more competitive, more expensive and more EVERYTHING in Manhattan, then…do brown guys expect brown girls to be skinnier, too? And does skinny mean fit? Or just skinny?

My guy friends (the unManhattanites, if you will…I’m not counting the Murray Hill dwellers et al for the purposes of this fluffy post) would line up giddily for a shot at the gorgeous girl above. Would our I(yengar) bankers? I think we have a bit of a vested interest in all this; the majority of the Desi vomen whom I am privileged to know are curvaceous, if they’re out of their teens. For most men, that’s a good thing. My male buddies don’t like straight lines—on the roads they’re about to break laws on or…uh…you know.

Curves are good. Right? Left? Those are definitely curves, on the left.

So, as I said memorably (and almost 1,700 comments ago!), out with it then. Let’s have the truth. What do you want? Is the woman I’ve wrapped this post around zaftig or is she just right? Err, left? You know what I mean. And this ain’t no heteronormative joint. I’ll be the first to tell you that she could inspire me to discover a love that dare not speak its naam. ;) What about you?

“Put up a post, please. Now, if possible.”

“Like…a test post?”

“Yes. A post. Any post.”

“Um…okay.”

I leaned back, then giggled. I was in a silly mood. A few moments later…

i’m brown irish, actually.

there once was a group of brown nerds
who spent all their time toying with words
they all loved to blog
(some from a city with fog)
b/c let’s face it, a social life’s for the birds.

(mc sharaabi, out)

“Ta-da!”, I trilled, to my late German Shepherd, Rani.

A few moments later, a terse reply appeared: “thanks.” Don’t ask me how, but I knew that his trebuchet-lettered, monosyllabic response had been punctuated by one mighty eye-roll, instead of just a period.

And that’s how it all began, on July 30, 2004

::

It was dizzying, the start of this thing, this “project”, this labor of love, loathe, learning and light.

Political ads were everywhere, constantly reminding us that we were cynical spectators at the race to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue; so were news stories, about outsourcing, racism (clumsily cloaked as wit), and profiling. Three years ago, we were outraged over the very same things. Normally, this would depress me, but I can’t despair, not now, not over this. This is extraordinary. The issues may be the same, but everything else is different, because we are different. We are here.

::

July, 2004.

I wrote a post on my original blog, HERstory.

Manish wrote a post on his original blog, vij.com.

Abhi emailed us, plus two more.

“Guys, I can’t believe so many of my friends are still undecided about whom to vote for…yet when I show them your story on Mamta, Anna, or yours on Michigan’s GOP, Manish…then they’re suddenly more decisive. You know what we need to do? We need to centralize this, all of this information…because the conventions are coming and what is at stake is so important…we need to reach more people.”

There were murmurs of agreement and empathy.

“Guys, I think we should create a group blog for this stuff. Think about it— all of our readerships overlap a little bit…the same people who might read Anna, sometimes read Manish or me….it’s great that we’re raising awareness about these desi news stories that get no attention otherwise, but we should focus our efforts, so people aren’t going to different places. This is the first year they’ll allow bloggers at the convention! We need to do this. Now.”

And we did.

For approximately six hours, furious rounds of emails passed, a few instant messenger chats popped and one phone call was made…then, we paused. The most difficult decision we had faced yet stymied us, putting a consummate, thudding halt to our spectacular telesis.

Uh, what would we name this goo-covered thing, which was “crowning” and about to force its debut any minute now?

Desirati?

Indian Ink?

Blogwalla?

Tamarind.

Amar Akbar Anthony?

Dishoom Dishoom?

XDesi?

BrownAmerica?

Desispiracy?

PanDesi?

Desinfect?

Desified?

Shotgun Rishta!

Desintegrate?

Blogging While Brown.

We each had submitted close to a dozen names; we ranked and re-ranked, and then calculated which idea had what percentage of support. It was exhausting. It reminded me of sorority rush, when prospective pledges ranked the houses they liked and we did the same on the other end, hoping that without too much delay or effort, everything would get sorted and everyone would be happy.

Uh, no.

After blazing through vision, expectations, concepts and possibilities, unanimously agreeing, almost immediately, on all of it (No meetings? GREAT. No deadlines or assigned stories? Awesome! No expectations or rules, beyond the barest minimum of guidelines, which all seemed to pop out of our heads identically and simultaneously? FANtastic. Some of us have never [and still never!] met? Who cares?)…we were stuck.

“What about Sepia Mutiny?”, I blurted out.

Silence.

…because according to some commenters, apparently, it isn’t. Suddenly there are commentS about hot Desi girls choosing white guys over their own— and I emphasize the plural aspect of “comment”, because that’s what caught my attention— this wasn’t some one-off virtual rant. Frankly, Mr. Shankly, I’m shocked. While some of the people who are leaving the eyebrow-raising statements seem to be new, I’m fully aware that the normal pattern of Sepia engagement is:

Random Googling —> Sepia? What the-? —> Hmmm, interesting —> Lurking —> and then finally, posting.

If these anti-miscegenation fans have followed that tried-and-true process, then they’d be aware that there are more than a few members of the Mutiny community who are the products of interracial unions; I can’t imagine that they’d be so tactless as to disparage such pairings when they reflect someone like Siddhartha, Desidancer or SemiDesiMasala’s ancestry.

So, maybe these are just mischief-instigating trolls, having some wicked fun via drive-by hate-spewing.

Or are they?

I think there’s more to this— and that’s why I’m publishing this post. Let’s have it out, then. Some of you seem to be in the mood to REALLY tell us what you think, so here’s your deluxe chance. Almost everyone here is anonymous. :) It’s safe to be honest.

The following comments were left on my post about a woman named Aarti being chosen as one of the cuter people on the Hill:

hillside: Also I’ve never dated an Indian girl either, probably partly because so many of the hot ones like the two on this list are into white dudes. [sm]

Sheetal: (referring to comment above)
I’ve noticed this too. What is up with that? [sm]

Sheetal followed that comment by excerpting the following portion of the Hill article, making sure to highlight certain significant words by “bolding” them.

Skipper is a native of Chicago but both parents are from India — something that had worried her when it came to the issue of marriage. The handsome man in church soon became her boyfriend, but he was American and Caucasian, far from what she thought her parents would ever accept.

Okay, loud and clear. Jamie Skipper is Desi and she married a Caucasian (never mind that Desis are Caucasian, too). Yet another commenter seemed to agree with hillside and Sheetal:

I haven’t had much occasion to travel long distances by car lately, so I haven’t really noticed the motel signs that say “American Owned.” Coach D posted about how she boycotted such places on her vacation:

I had adamently refused to stay anywhere that had on it’s sign “American Owned”.

Big D argued well,”What if it turns out they’re not some local dicks trying to cash in on being white in the post 9-11 south? What if they’re naturalized citizens from someplace else and they’re taking advantage of the whole ‘American owned’ movement by putting that on their sign? They are AMERICAN, right?”

“But then they’re feeding that whole line of racist thought, they’re promoting the xenophobic tourist and racist/anti-immigrant mindset. Fuck that shit. I ain’t giving them my money if they put that shit on their sign.” [Link]

This is an issue for the owner of the Route66motels.com website as well, a website designed to encourage travellers on Route 66 to stay at mom-and-pop motels, but which refuses to list any motels that say “American Owned”:

Q. So what are the standards?

A. There are three. First, no vermin. Second, it has to be clean. This means no visible dirt and no weird smells. Third, no motel advertising itself as “AMERICAN OWNED” will ever be listed on this site. Period. No exceptions.

Q. What’s wrong with saying the motel is American-owned? Isn’t that just being patriotic?

A. No. It would be patriotic to fly an American flag or put up a sign that says something like “Support our troops” or “God bless the U.S.A.” The phrase “American owned” has a racist connotation. … There is no legitimate reason to advertise one’s pedigree on a billboard or in front of a business. [Link]

I had no idea this was going on, but it was easy enough to find motel signs (from delightfully cheesy motels) of places that do it. Click on the photo to be taken to the original on Flickr, it’s far larger and prettier.

I’m with Coach D on this issue - I would never stay at a motel that says “American Owned and Operated” in big letters outside. If they’re non-desis, then I don’t think they really want my business - I wouldn’t expect them to treat me well. And if they’re desis, then they might not want me around lest I scare off the @$$holes they’ve attracted as clients. Either way, I imagine I would be treated poorly. Why not take my money somewhere else?

Exactly 32.5 years ago, a short man with a fearsome moustache stood at a nursery window, tears in his eyes, pride bordering on arrogance spilling forth via his words.

“See her? The one with the huge eyes? That’s my daughter.”

The strangers standing near him congratulated him and politely made remarks about his newborn’s full head of hair and yes, her eyes, which were peering around suspiciously as if she were casing her bassinet, planning a possible escape.

“She was alert, when she was born. She didn’t cry. She…uh…she takes after me. Strong.”

He cleared his throat and complained about the dust, using his ever-present handkerchief to wipe his eyes swiftly.

“Look at the other babies…they are oblivious. They’re nothing compared to her.” He had never been so smug.

My “Grandma”, who is a Russian Orthodox woman who married an Italian, who still sends me a check every January, who told me this story, stood by him, smiling.

“Oh, cut the bullshit George! Every parent thinks their kid is a damned miracle.”

She was teasing him, she didn’t mean it. She always admitted as much when telling this tale, because the next part of it involves her elbowing the woman next to her, and asking, “Have you ever seen a baby with so much hair and such big eyes? Most kids are bald. And squinty.”

My Mom was down the hall, passed out. There was still a tiny smudge of flour on her arm; she had been making chapati when I made my abrupt entrance on a Saturday night, after less than two hours of labor.

::

Much like the adorable protagonist of “Knocked Up”, my father had purchased baby books to study.

Ever the engineer, he charted out milestones and other information. He laid awake at night, unable to sleep; his brain, which already over thought everything, was now whirring even faster. He was the precursor to today’s “helicopter” parent, though he’d scoff at such dilettantes for being OCD-freaks-come-lately.

“That’s what happens when you wait until you are 38 to have a child. You really parent”, he’d explain to me and anyone else who would listen, later.

::

“You will be a book baby,” he allegedly announced to me, the day he strapped me in to the back of one massive Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, on the way home from the hospital. “You will do everything exactly when the books say…”

…or else. Or else, what? Who knows, I’m just lucky I did it. All that amazing early achievement would buy me some leeway when I turned out to be spectacularly mediocre, later on in life.

I love reading real newspapers on the weekends (since all I have time for is Express during the week). While lazing through the New York Times this afternoon, I found this six week old “T: Style” article which made me smile, after the conversation I had yesterday with a mutineer…

me: How was dinner?

she: Can I vent?

me: But of course, my little cabbage!

she: I got robbed.

me: OMG, you got mugged???

she: Noooo. I mean…when the bill came.

me: I don’t get it.

she: Of course you do, you’re veg, too.

me: Oh, THAT-a-way

she: Yes. That. A. Way. Not a damned vegetarian entree on the menu AND everyone I was with obviously ordered seafood— not just any seafood…the market-rate stuff.

me: Ah, that which has no price listed.

she: EXACTLY!

me: Ouch.

she: That’s not even the worst of it! You know how I don’t drink??

me: Yeah…?

she: Well, everyone else more than made up for it. 3-4 each.

me: Wow, so you-

she: Subsidized a bunch of fish and vodka. What I ordered came to all of $25 WITH tax and a 20% tip…what I PAID was $72.

me: Sigh. Well, you made the birthday girl happy by being there.

she: True. But, I COULD HAVE GIVEN HER THE $50. Then she’d be happy and I wouldn’t feel so damned ripped-off.

Stop smirking, dear readers. You know you’ve had that EXACT conversation with one of your friends. Half the brown people in Amreeka are Guju* and plenty of them are Jain. :) Quit acting like you are unaware of the plight of the put-upon veggie:

Do birthday parties held in restaurants give you a palm-dampening, heart-palpitating anxiety attack? You’re not alone…

It’s not that we don’t wish many happy returns to B. P. — now blushing in thanks or dashing abashedly to the powder room — really, we do. It’s the guy two chairs down who ordered the foie gras appetizer, Dover sole entree, side of truffled mashed potatoes and three martinis made with designer gin whom we never want to see again.

“Vegetarians always get screwed at these things,” rightly groused a paralegal who is tired of subsidizing other people’s steak frites.

…by which I mean ignorance and racism; I have nothing against ancient warriors who had little to do with the lush paradise in which my parents were born. I’ve largely refrained from the “Scythian”-drama on SM, which has now pindered out to the point where it’s almost an inside joke: “But is she SCYTHIAN??”, etcetera ad nauseum.

Behold, the stunning nescience below, which inspired this unexpected post:

Well not all Punjabis are Scythians, but some are. I don’t look like the small, dark and gumpy looking people there. I’m totally a 6’4” tall, 220 lbs. White Scythian, not just in complection, but in those jagged Iranic/Germanic Scythian features. U.S. Born, and a U.S. Marine too. Not some unkempt, short darkie, goofy looking son of a bitch like most of those Indian fuckers are. Don’t forget about the Pashtunic, Scythian, White Hun, Magog descendents who decided to stay on the Indian side during 1947. And changed their names to Singh. I got nothing in common with most Singhs, I’m all-American here. My blood’s totally of White Hun/Scythian and Greek lineage. I should change my name back to our original Scythic/Hun and Greek surnames, before my ancestors made the hair brained idea to stay on the Indian side. When they should have fought hard to preserve their Princely States, which do not belong to India or Pakistan. I got nothing in common with Desis in appearance and culture. They’re as bad as the Muslims! The problem is, is that most here are NOT Scythians, so they won’t understand, but it’s foolish to claim that all are Scythic, or none are Scythic. However some are. Also a lot of pure Scythians left India in 1947 and the time after that to come to America. Since their high civilization of their Princely States were robbed and dissolved by the Desis. No worries, though, we’re florishing well here. Just I’m against the current immigration of all these undesirables who don’t belong in America. The immigration rules of the 1950’s, 1960’s were excellent in America. But not anymore, today. With the way things are going, America’s gonna be another 3rd World cesspool if they don’t close the doors to immigration. But it’s all Commie New World Order and the Bibilical End Times now. So go figure. [for shame]

Hmmm. I wonder if he realizes that most of our darkie desi parents came here during that “excellent” era for immigration, i.e. 1965.

Look.

I’m all for being proud of one’s roots and heritage. I’m certainly not ashamed of my undesirable, small, dark and gumpy (??) past. I’m also proud of the fact that like this commenter, my sister is active duty Air Force; I’m a total cheerleader for our troops, but that doesn’t mean I’ll overlook the egregious. You see, there’s being proud and then there’s being pejorative. One can be the former without resorting to the latter. Shocking concept, I know.

If you are someone Gujjar, Sindhi, Kashmiri or whatever and you have some logical right to claim Scythian ancestry, then bully for you. I was always taught that Scythians were blood-drinking, pot-headed, parent-devouring cannibals who didn’t even have a written language, but whatever floats your quasi-supremacist boat. ;) I keed, I keed.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that you Scythians are unique and special. Just like everyone else. You’re no better or worse. Just like everyone else. So why this fixation on differentiating yourself from us when you quite probably have some of our small, darkie genes too, even if they haven’t expressed themselves in your tall, broad-shouldered, Aryan phenotype? What is up with the proto-racism?

And if you are excessively proud of your purported background, why come to a site populated by inferior darkies to crow about it? People who own Ferraris are fine with obeying the speed limit/staying out of the extreme left lane, I’ve seen it myself. It’s the poser in the uber-modded __ who has something to prove— and behaves deplorably.

Since I commenced this post because of a comment, let me end with one, too. This was Chachaji’s response to CinnamonRani, over on the Skin Color Matters thread:

I think discrimination based on skin color(or for that matter discrimination based on any visible markers of difference) is an innately human behavior. It takes a lot of conscious effort to see beyond the visible marker at an individual level. This requires training, sensitization, consciousness raising, and it has to happen all the time, in every generation. Although one makes distinctions precisely because one is human, it is also because one is human that one can become aware that one is doing so, and learn not to base significant decisions on these markers. People who claim they are not racists are often being not so much dishonest as ignorant of their own psychological processes. [link]

Better yet, have a cup of Possibly Scythian-descended Camille:

…Honestly, when people say this, I wonder if folks recognize that this is just another way of playing into ideas of white supremacy and a “white on top” racial hierarchy? PARTICULARLY when they start throwing in color (e.g. “Oh I’m much more like (fair-skinned) Aryans than (dark) south Indians.” It’s racist and stupid, through and through…[link].

What do you think? Be respectful, please. I’d love to have a discussion where we hash this out, for once and all, but that won’t happen if this thread gets shut down. Scythe away at each other accordingly. ;)

The more I thought about it today the angrier I became. I never expected to write a post about Paris Hilton on this blog. I’m incensed whenever mainstream media thinks that her life is worth reporting to the masses, especially in light of the real events in our world that go ignored. She is a harbinger of the Assault on Reason. But finally, today, Paris became relevant to me. TMZ.com has had the best blow-by-blow on the internet:

Law enforcement sources tell TMZ Paris Hilton’s medical condition was purely psychological and that she was in peril of having a nervous breakdown, and that’s why she was released early this morning.

Psychiatrist Charles Sophy visited Hilton in jail yesterday and the day before. We’re told after Sophy’s visit yesterday, word was passed to the Sheriff that Hilton’s mental state was fragile and she was at risk.

The reason for releasing her had nothing to do with a rash or other physical issues. It was purely in her head. [Link]

And the breakdown of our society is complete. Just think about this for a minute (if you haven’t been already). A rich white girl was convicted of being a drunk driver and sent to jail. She was convicted even after making use of the best lawyers that money could buy and having full and transparent use of the American legal system. After three days she gets out because prison was too much for her fragile mind and she wasn’t eating well. Meanwhile, you have so-called “enemy combatants,” some of them South Asian, who in many cases don’t get a lawyer or even get to hear the evidence against them. They are simply thrown into a cage. Not only do they not receive a get-out-of-jail-free card for mental illness, they get tortured in a manner meant to hasten mental illness. Even children. I know some of you think it might be unfair of me to compare Hilton to Guantanamo inmates. You are quite correct. The Guantanamo inmates have only allegedly committed a crime. And what about the thousands of non-rich women and juveniles in the American legal system? Many get raped or assaulted in prison without any justice. They don’t get to go home with an ankle bracelet if they cry about it or don’t eat the soggy vegetables on their plates. Mental illness is very real and shouldn’t be treated lightly (but it is unless you are rich). What we are witnessing here is a perfect example of the “Two Americas” that candidate John Edwards is always going on about.

Growing up in a Jewish neighborhood, I always felt that Desi and Jewish culture were similar. Unlike WASPs, we’re big into food, we have warm but meddlesome families, and we love to argue. So I was tickled brown to see a recent report of a desi bagel and bialy store owner named Ravi Agarwal who opened his third store in Park Slope, Brooklyn. He seems to make a pretty mean bagel, and his bialys are even better.

And no, it’s not a shanda for brown (non-Jews) to make Jewish food. Earlier we wrote about how a desi is the source for the perfect egg cream. And although it’s a different shade of brown, New York’s most famous bagel store, H&H Bagels, was founded by brothers-in-law Helmer Toro and Hector Hernandez.

My favorite aspect of this story — as reported by the Grey Lady — is that Agarwal’s ethnicity is never alluded to at all. It’s simply about how he, as a businessman from outside the neighborhood, goofed up in naming his bagel shop “Arena Bagels and Bialys”:

Mr. Aggarwal’s two teenage children had suggested the name after reading online about the planned new home of the New Jersey Nets. He thought it was a smart idea; the shop is in Park Slope, a few blocks from the site of the proposed Barclays Center arena, part of the [controversial] Atlantic Yards development…Soon, however, workers in the space began noticing negative reactions from passers-by… A few people even entered the shop to complain. And then a few more. In all, Mr. Aggarwal said, 20 or 25 unhappy people trooped in.

Mr. Aggarwal… quickly figured out that a word that is innocuous in Queens — he lives in Forest Hills, near one of his other two bagel shops — may be anything but innocuous in Brooklyn. [Link]

The problem was that many locals oppose the Atlantic Yards project, including the Arena, and so they pressured the shop as their way of voicing dissatisfaction with the development plan.

In this case Aggarwal screwed up because he’s an ousider, but by outsider the journalist means a businessman from Queens rather than an immigrant, a brown-man, or even a non-Jew. It’s just good local reporting.

[The original story in The Brooklyn Paper does mention that he’s an imigrant from Punjab, but only in the context of saying that he was a hard working man who worked his way up from dishwasher only to have his business get caught in a local battle over the stadium.]

This is going to be the sloppiest, most rushed entry I’ve ever posted, but that’s because I’m so excited about what I just saw, I want to get the information to you sooner vs. later. I can edit after I publish, damnit.

There’s a show we have received several tips about— “The Lot”. We keep hearing about it because it has a desi contestant named Shalini Kantayya:

ON THE LOT, executive-produced by Mark Burnett and Steven Spielberg, will give aspiring filmmakers from around the world the chance to earn a $1-million development deal at DreamWorks.

Premiering on May 22 and airing twice a week throughout the summer on FOX, this reality-competition series features a cast of undiscovered filmmakers who will compete to win the support of the show’s viewers, as their fate will be decided by a weekly audience vote…

Every week, the hopeful filmmakers will produce short films from a chosen genre, running the gamut from comedies to thrillers, dramas to romance, action to horror. They’ll have access to the best resources the industry has to offer — professional writers, cast and crew, and maybe even Hollywood celebrities. [link]

I usually don’t get home until about now, so I knew I wouldn’t get to watch it and that’s why I promptly forgot about it— until tonight, when I was channel-surfing because I’m sick and on the couch. Once I heard that of the 15 finalists, five would be featured tonight, I stuck around to see if the brown girl would be in the ring…and she was.

Despite being high on codeine and everything else in my virus-wracked system, I sat up for the first time all day because THIS GIRL IS TALENTED. No wonder they plucked her out of a pool of 12,000 applicants from all over the world.

I’m not typing that because she’s brown— she had the BEST FILM OF THE NIGHT and Michael Bay, the guest judge who directed “Transformers”, agrees with me.

Here’s the thing: there’s but a wee two-hour window in which to vote for true awesomeness (dial 1-88-Thelot-05 or click the next link to show your love online). You can vote as many times as you’d like (handy “Vote” button is highlighted in yellow) AND you can view Shalini’s 3-minute clip yourselves— I think once you do, you’ll be cheering her on as effusively as I am, though you won’t sound like a frog while doing it.

Because Akka loves you, she feels like nagging your misbehaving kundis about something you should not do (via the AP and one anonymous tipster on the news tab):

Smoking a hookah may be as dangerous as cigarettes, the World Health Organisation said, adding that more research was needed into the link between the use of the water pipe and several fatal illnesses. It said that a person can inhale a hundred times more smoke – a mixture of tobacco, molasses and fruit flavours – in a hookah session than in one cigarette. Hookah, or shisha, smoking is a tradition in North Africa and the Middle East. [Linkaya]

I’ve heard so many people declare that smoking a hookah is “nowhere near as dangerous” as “regular” smoking, I had to post this. I hope those delusional darlings are reading this and realigning their thoughts accordingly.

Also, while the blurb states that Shisha is popular in North Africa and the Middle East, it is also popular with brown people, especially the annoying ones who won’t quit staring at Prince Cafe in Georgetown, at 3am when all a girl is trying to do is innocently get her mirchi Aloo Chole on. What is it with our people and the shameless gawking?

It would be one thing if this were Iowa circa 1968 and two lonely Namesake-era desis were curiously gazing at each other in a room full of Amreekans, the desire for recognition, i.e. that knowing “gang recognize gang”-moment apparent on their homesick visages, but this is D.C. and out of the sixty people at Prince, the only white guy is the Romanian Orthodox dude behind the counter. We have taken over. The “Arrrre you Yindian??”-bit is thus uncalled for in this uberdesi day and age.

Wait, what was I saying? Oh yeah. QUIT EFFING SMOKING. That hacking cough ain’t attractive, y’all. Back to your regularly scheduled troll-baiting, spelling bee-dissing and witty comment-making then.

After much kvetching about it, I will cave and put up a post so you aren’t tormented by South Indian perfection everytime you hit F5.

I find it wickedly hilarious that the only thing I had “ready-made” was also about…food. :) Don’t worry— these Naan looked a lot better than they tasted, which was not very good. How do you cook something with ghee in a tandoor and STILL have it taste like a pita?

::

I keep it fobulous, y’all.

No, really. I’m going to. By my conservative estimate, we have people from twelve different countries working on my project; several of them bring food from home every day, which they nuke in the microwave, which means the fragrance/reeking odor permeates the entire office suite.

When my Pakistani colleague heats something up, it smells vaguely familiar. Same for the Turkish food. But everything else…seriously, someone needs to pass a law which prohibits the reheating of SEAFOOD in microwaves. Vomitacious. That’s what that is. So, I am no longer going to be considerate to the point of paranoia about eating brown food at work, especially not when the Pakistani food comes here in big plastic dabas to facilitate multiple servings— people love desi food, so the man sweetly brings extra. That’s how I got some unexpected halwa a week or so ago. He was walking around the same way my Mom does at home, at the end of lunch, looking for someone to finish the last portion (whether they want to or not), so he could wash the dish. I was already full and in no mood for sooji halwa, but I got a big ass serving of it and you best believe I cleaned my plate in time to pass his inspection 20 mins later. :)

So. This is naan I found at Whole Paycheck on Sunday. I had absolutely no hope of it being good, especially since it has “BEST New Food Product in America” stickered upon it. I mean, it’s at Whole Foods. How authentic could it be? Still, stupidity springs eternal, innit?

Well, it is not the real deal or even remotely close, despite the fact that it is made (allegedly) in a tandoor, with ghee no less. But after the first two disappointing bites, I found myself going back for more. It tastes like really soft pita bread. Or a cross between pita and naan. As long as it doesn’t taste like Bisquick (I’m looking at you, lazy desi restaurants!!!), I’m open to destroying something pickled with it. I’m surprised to report that the “regular/white” type tasted much better than the whole-grain-loaded version pictured above left. Too bad, too. The wheatish ones looked somewhat like my mom’s puris…but they taste even more like pita bread than the “white” naan do.

Since I was already in an experimental mood, I tried a DIFFERENT brand of Kaduku Manga pickle: “Nirapara”. Verdict? Not bad at all. Tastes more home-made than my belowed Grandma’s brand, but that is because it has an edge I can’t quite determine the origin of— and imperfection feels homely. No matter. It’s my “work” kaduku manga. I’ve got half a case of the real deal safely squirreled away at home, where it belongs.

Every weekday morning as I make my way towards the looooooong escalators which lead to red lines, I smile at the man who is employed by the Washington Post to hand out their freebie paper The Express (a.k.a. WaPo Lite). It’s stapled and tabloid-sized which makes it convenient to manage but more importantly, it’s interesting enough to make the trip to work fly by; I especially like the back pages, where they choose pithy quotes from blogs, mention things like FREE Haagen-Dazs and update us metro-riding DCists on celebrity-related crap.

I don’t read Trent or Perez because I’m not THAT interested in whether Britney is wearing knickers (Shamita Shame Shame on the other hand…) but I don’t mind learning enough to keep me clued in to what might be considered conversational fair-game. That’s why I skimmed the following blurb about Junior Combover and his spouse, while waiting for the next train:

Donald Trump became a grandfather over the weekend, 14 months after he became a dad all over again. The baby girl, Kai Madison, was born to Donald Trump Jr. and his wife, Vanessa, both 29, on Saturday in New York, according to published reports. She weighed 6 pounds, 14 ounces. Trump Jr. said the girl’s name comes from her maternal grandfather, a Danish musician. Kai will grow up alongside her uncle Barron, born to Trump and his third wife, Melania, in 2006.

Fine, fine…but what caught my attention was the title:

Family Tree Irrevocably Mangled by Trump Scion

I was so perplexed by this, I didn’t hustle like a normal person and I almost missed my opportunity to evade Sliding Doors. Seriously? Wasn’t “mangled” a bit much? I know, the writers at Express are delightfully snarky, but this immediately and consummately reminded me of all the times when I was younger and my classmates were weirded out by my byzantine family tree:

Say THAT five times fast. Anyway, am I the only one who had a terribly silly Auntie refer to her kids’ naughty bits as their “shame shame”? Thankfully, my parents always said, “that…you know…” while vaguely nodding in my midsection’s general direction or “kundi”, which is optimal compared to what Silly-Auntie called it. Way to instill healthy feelings about one’s body, there. Obviously anything labeled “shame” is going to be thought of positively. Oh, wait. We’re desi. My bad.

Aside: At one of the best Kahani workshops ever hosted in DC, somehow one of the writing exercises (d)evolved in to a brief discussion of what one was taught to call their “shame shame”, after Turbanhead’s adorable youngest sibling read aloud her draft, which mentioned how she referred to that area as…wait for it…wait for it…

…her happy-no-no place.

Ah, I love wannabe fiction writers and their fantastically fecund minds. :D

I swear I had a point…but it’s Friday and I’ve missed happy hour…what…was…I…OH YES! Shamita. Dear sweet Shamita. Shamita whom I had never heard of before yesterday, who is younger sister to the woman whose effigy was still a top-seller, as of last week. I’m referring to Big Brother star and Richard Gere-magnet Shilpa Shetty, of course.

Well, Shamita pulled a Britney, though in my day, it was called a Basic Instinct. She showed up somewhere all of two of you care about in a mini-dress without her chuddies on (Thanks, UberDesi). That’s the big deal. Hahaha. Now you know. Yo slick, blow.

While you do that, I’m going to ponder whatever happened to Bel, Biv and DeVoe and whether one should trust a big butt and a smile (I’m inclined to say yes, but I’m biased). Happy Weekend, y’all.

As an ABCD, I want things both ways. In the USA I want to be recognized as fully American; hyphenated American to be sure, but still just as American as any pink-skinned Mayflower descendent. This is especially true when I need consular support or when I am re-entering the country.

I once had an INS agent look at my face and tell me that the line for foreign nationals was elsewhere. When I showed her my passport, she proceeded to treat it as fraudulent and grilled me (improperly) until she was satisfied. Ironically, she was a Filipina with a thick accent herself.

But in India, I usually want to pass. I was really proud when a Delhite came up to me on the street and asked me for directions in Hindi. The only time I’ve been amused to hear “You speak English really well” was when it came from an Eastern European tourist at Fatehpur Sikri. [I ruined the illusion by responding “Thanks. I watch a lot of American television” whereupon he recognized the American sense of humor.]

Heck, last time I was in India, I passed too well. I was wearing a khaddar kurta and had my beard open and some guard at the Delhi domestic airport decided I was too pendu to belong and demanded that I produce my ticket. I responded in very American English that my ticket was with my “Daaaaad” (it was) and walked off, having asserted myself as an NRI.

Is Jamie a modak? A manju?

I mean, we don’t even have a word for the opposite of coconut. What would we call somebody who is white on the outside, but brown (and hairy) on the inside? A pickled egg? A rotten egg? What’s the correct term for somebody like Jamie Alter?

A day in the life of Jamie Alter is not easy. He takes the bus to office … and is stared at all the way. Teenagers snigger and point… But Jamie, son of actor Tom Alter, isn’t a tourist or long-term expat. He’s Indian and it says as much on his passport. Having grown up in Mumbai and Mussoorie, Jamie understands references to Chitrahaar, not American sitcoms. When he went to the US for his undergraduate degree, he thought he’d blend in. And he did — as far as appearances go. Until he realised his heart was in India. “I missed the chaos of Mumbai. I love cricket, not American culture. I came back because I’m happier here,” says the 25-year-old. [Link]

To me, the correct term for Jamie Alter is Indian.