The Distant I

Close to nature: à la française

2010-11-13T02:20:00.000-08:00

As the world goes ga ga about environment, recycling and all the other jargons that is equivalent to going back to nature, I wonder how many of us actually in our personal lives try to consciously live a lifestyle which is closer to nature. I know it is tough considering that we live in a world becoming fast consumeristic and commercial, where things like plastic bags and mobile phones (which use coaltan, a mineral that has the whole of Africa in conflict) indispensable. In the case of mobile phones, I am amazed at the rapidity with which individuals change their phones. I, as I am end up developing a personal relationship with mine and each change is traumatic. I am sure all the world's anti-globalisation, environment activists send their messages from the latest blackberry's.

In this regard, I have observed and appreciated the French. There are many French people who do not have mobile phones, or for that matter an email-ID, who use a bike to go to work and use cloth bags for shopping!! Trust me, for all the glamour that the French symbolize they seem to be the most simplest in the world, who believe in staying active to stay fit, but without going to the gym. The French idea of exercise is climbing moutains, especially, if they live close to any of the mountain ranges in the South of France, like the Pyrénées or the Alpes. In fact, living close to the alpes for almost an year I have trekked up some tough terrains during the summer and skied down some slopes in winter, gone on balades in Spring and now in automn, just to look at the colours and pick the fruit of the season, be it prunes, apples or even nuts, with many a French. Going to the mountains or just walking is something that even the young are encouraged to do as such outings are organized frequently in the youth hostels. The idea of an active life is further reinforced when after every advertisement for a artificial drink like Coca Cola or candy it is announced: Pour votre santé bougez plus: Exercise more for better health, or Pour votre santé mangez au moins cinq fruits et légumes par jour : For your health eat atleast five fruits and vegetables each day and many other messages. There is even a programme at the governement level called the Programme National Nutrition et Santé: PNNS which advocates good eating and living habits.

For all the globalization happening in this world, the French still love to dine on food produced on their terroir. Eat the fruits picked from their gardens and buy bread from the local boulangerie (bakery) and of course, cheese and wine, à la française. Of course, it is not that people don't buy food from Carrefour, but that kind of shopping is looked suspicious upon by many french people who believe in développement durable and giving the local producers, who grow their foods without chemicals, their due. Thus, local markets which open early morning uptil the afternoon are the spots where the French like to pick up their lettuces and tomatoes.

Of Men and of Gods: Death at the Doorstep

2010-11-04T09:32:00.000-07:00

How would you feel if you are in a situation when death is breathing down your neck and all you wish to do is wait for it to strike? On the night of 26 and 27 March, 1996, eight of the ten French monks were kidnapped from their monastry in Tibhrine, in the Atlas mountains of Algeria, North Africa. Their heads were recovered on 31 May, 1996. The death of the eight monks shocked France and since then became a black page in the history of Franco-Algerien relationship. 14 years after this incident, in 2010 French filmmaker Xavier Beauvois tries to recapture the last days of the ten monks as they continued to serve the village in Tibhrine as the monastry had been for the past 50 years since its establishment in 1938.

Des Hommes et Des Dieux (Of Men and Of Gods) released in 2010 won the Prix de Jury écumenique at the Cannes and was released on September 8. Since then the French and Maghrebine audiences who lived through the 10 years of civil war and Islamic terrorism in Algeria haven’t stopped raving about it. It’s a film that is growing popular with each passing day.

Beauvois, while capturing the stark landscape and the local customs of Tibhrine, has masterfully etched out the dilemma of the 10 monks who are unsure of whether they should continue serving their mission in Tibhrine, considering that the wave of Islamic terrorism was wiping out anyone or anything that was being considered unIslamic. Even as the monks are caught in the quagmire and weigh the pros and cons of returning to France, their head Christiane (Lambert Wilson) strongly advocates staying in Tibhrine and continuing to serve the people as that is what they had promised their life to.

The monks continue with their daily work of giving medicines and helping the local village folk with their day-to-day problems and worries. The villagers in turn are grateful for their presence and insist that, terrified as they are, they find support and strength in the presence of the monks in the village. And slowly, all the monks come to agree with Christiane, that the mission of their life is to serve the people of Tibheria. That is their promise to the Almighty and they should be able to stick to their promise come what may.

Meanwhile, the Algerian army and officials try to warn the monks of the danger that looms large. However, their devotion to their purpose continues. In fact, their decision to nurse a wounded terrorist only makes them look like allies in the eyes of the Algerian army.

The film is a fine representation of Christian life, purpose and faith especially in the face of danger. The discussions on the purpose of their mission are enlightening and fills the viewer with courage, as fear threatens to set in. At the same time, Des Hommes et Des Dieux is also a window to the reign of terror that swept through Algeria in the 1990s, a phenomenon that the world doesn’t know much about. Many thousands were killed and massacred because they were suspected of leading ‘unislamic’ lives. Overall, a great and enlightening watch

Published on 3rd November, 2010 at Passion for Cinema:
http://passionforcinema.com/of-men-and-of-gods-movie-review-death-at-the-doorstep/

Lost Summer

2010-09-08T12:25:00.000-07:00

The Radio Post

2010-07-05T02:18:00.000-07:00

I have always believed in the radio. And now as I am buried neck deep in my mémoire (masters dissertation in the French University system) about the radio. Something that I wrote long ago seems to gaining an all new meaning in itself. It is finally about 'how' you listen rather than 'what' you listen.

Wading through the airwaves
Long before the days of FM, I used to sleep with my radio — especially during the cold Delhi winters. Once the lights were switched off for the night, I would sneak the radio into my blanket and rotate the dial until I found the right station. The most frequent one I encountered was BBC, with its signature tune setting the royal stage. My mind would conjure images of guards marching in front of Buckingham Palace. Soon the news would light up parts of the world in the dark warm shelter of my blanket. The droughts, military coups, festivals, football matches...Letter reading was a great way of getting to know the world. Once, an Ecuadorian woman wrote that if everyone listening to the programme at that particular time would jump they could create an earthquake. Wonder how many listeners jumped at the presentator’s prompting!

Another channel that I would bump into was the Voice of America. America, now obsessed with terrorists, broadcasted some interesting programmes on faith over VOA. Other voices that I encountered were Radio Deustch welle and Radio France. Sometimes I would catch faint strains of Radio Iran, or Iraq. At times, alien noises from Korea, China, Japan.
Our good old AIR wasn’t dull either. However, what irked me the most was that they would whet my curiosity with the promise of the latest song and then start reading out the names of those who had made the farmaish (they still do this!). By the end of it, my curiosity would be dead. But there was one programme whose long list of admirers didn’t irritate me and that was ‘For The Forces’. It is difficult to explain whether this was because midnights found me high on patriotism, or because of the Air Force background of my parents, or because of the chirpy presentator who read out all the letters with elan or because of the Western music which was played on the programme.
Today, there are radio channels galore, with the latest music and whacky RJs. But nothing matches the excitement of finding crystal clear voices after a wading through the crackling, incoherent airwaves. I am sure Karen Carpenter would agree!
Published in The Indian Express September 16, 2005

Harragas: Hop(e) on a boat

2010-02-24T03:37:00.000-08:00

This one is for all those who thought that France is the country of romantic literature, quaint old cities and cheese and wine. It's amazing how European language learning books, in their BD style can give us a rosy picture of life in Europe. The one thing that it doesn't tell us about is presence of scores of illegal immigrants or sans papiers (without papers) on this continent, most of them from erstwhile French colonies of Africa - Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria. Some come by plane and others by believe it or not - a boat. It is not exactly the poverty in their country that makes them to take such an extreme step - it is the misery and the hopelessness generated by the Islamists in these countries that render young people hopeless. Radical Islamists have made the presence of any cultural life impossible and almost all cinema halls in Algeria are destroyed by them, there are no proper housing facilities and young Algerians almost never get a visa to a European country. These factors make life miserable, making young Algerians want to leave their country by hook or crook, just to experience a life of freedom and well being. And that is what makes them to take the radical step of crossing the Mediterranean sea and coming to France, Spain, Italy and Greece.

One recent Algerian film that focuses on this phenomenon is Harragas. The word in Arab means - those who burn - implying those who burn their Algerian papers before they make their journey to Europe. Directed by Merzak Allouache, a well known Algerian director, the movie opens with the suicide of a young man in Algeria. Beside him is Algerian identity card - torn to pieces. In his suicide note to his sister he says - If I leave I die, If I don't leave I die too - so I just die. The heartbroken sister decides to take the boat with her boyfriend to Spain, despite the warnings of his friends that the journey might be tough for woman. The young Algerians are joined by another group of four from Western Sahara. However, on the appointed day the boat is taken over by another desperate man, who kills the group leader and takes his place on the boat. The journey begins - on the first night the group manages to float its way under the nose of coast guard ship. By the second night the gun-totting group leader who keeps insisting that he needs to reach Spain by hook or crook is thrown of the boat in a tussle with another conservative Muslim young man - both drown. Next morning the boat runs out of fuel and the youngsters discover that there are no oars in the boat. After hours of drifting pointlessly one (particularly good at swimming) decides to swim his way to the coast. Time drifts and the young couple decide to plunge into the blue Meditteranean sea. The four Africans from West Sahara who have no clue about swimming are left to their fate. One of them loses his mind and plunges into the sea only to drown. Finally, the remaining three spot a distant vessel and wave their hands. The film ends with a lifeboat approaching towards the boat. By the end of the film we know that known of them really made it to Spain as they were all expelled or imprisonned for illegally crossing the borders. The film closes with information about the 1000s who take the boat and only the few handfuls who finally make it to the European coast. Basically, the act of crossing the sea is Harragas. Harragas begins with the dry desperation of Muslim Africa and moves on to the beautiful Meditteranean sea where hope floats and desperation drowns. The director successfully manages to etch out the motivations and frustrations of each individual on the boat. However, the one aspect that the director missed out was underlining some reasons why young Algeriens want to leave their country. The film has some beautiful shots of the Meditteranean and for once we know that its blue and torquoise waters are witness to the brutal realities of life.

The experience of being 'Phished'!

2010-02-09T02:17:00.000-08:00

I had heard of phishing mail but never gave much thought to what it actually meant. On the few occasions I understood its meaning it easily slipped out of my head. The meaning of phishing mail hit me hard in the second week of 2010. It was a Saturday night and as I lay on my bed with my laptop perched on my stomach when I got a phishing mail from Yahoo. All excited about switching to the new Yahoo mail, having recently deleted thousands of messages dating back to the past two years, I was in a mood to be e-correct this year, to clean my congested mail box. The 'YAHOO' message read: Due to the congestion in all Yahoo users and removal of all unused Yahoo Accounts,Yahoo would be shutting down all unused Accounts,You will have to confirm your E-mail by filling out your login info below after clicking the reply botton or your Account will be suspended for security reasons.

I don't know what got into me. Perhaps it was the excitement of having been invited to go for a raquette (snow walking) the next day, in the mountains, considering that it had been snowing heavily that week or perhaps it was the spirit of 2010 which didn't want to leave any work unfinished and any form incomplete that I did something that I would never imagine doing in my life.

I went ahead and 'completed the form' as I got a bit concerned about my 'account being suspended in case the Yahoo team found that it wasn't being used or hadn't been confirmed'. The next day as I descended from the fairytale like mountains, my cellphone had already received four missed calls and a message saying that somebody was misuing my Yahoo inbox by sending messages to everyone saying that 'I am in the UK and have misplaced my wallet and needed money to pay my hotel bills' from everyone on my mailing list. By late evening almost everyone I knew in the planet had called me to ask whether I was fine. Most of them had seen me in church that morning obviously couldn't believe that I had reached the UK by late evening. Some thought I had been kidnapped. Soon I came to know that the 'e-pirate' had entered my Facebook account and was posting messages that 'I am in the UK and was in dire straits'. In short, it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon which turned into a panic as all was roll down the mountains and take charge of my Inbox.

Once in my room, I immediately rushed to my computer, tried to login to my Yahoo account - realised it was blocked. Then I logged into my Gmail account and sent messages to all and sundry that my Yahoo inbox had been hacked and that I was not in the UK and that I was safe.

I got some interesting responses from my friends, some had been communicating with this 'e-pirate' and where spooked. Some of them where concerned. There were others who responded and even offered addresses and phone numbers in the UK that I could contact and get help. Some had understood that this was an e-pirate. In short, my inbox had got famous.

I managed to log into my Yahoo account after 24 hours after the incident and found the damage that had been done. Basically, this 'e-pirate' had sent messages not only to each and everyone on my mailing list but also some strangers. Some people had responded and couldn't believe it was me. I shut down my computer and all I wanted to do was go as far away as possible from it.

The next day when I tried logging in again I couldn't. The e-pirate had managed to log in again as he had registered his email ID in my account and he could got alerts whenever I made changes to my account. He could also log in to my account and change password. The e-pirate had logged in again with a new password and had deleted all the messages he had received in response and a lot of other messages that I had safeguarded as souvenirs. This time I went to the Yahoo account security section and removed his email ID from my account and changed my password again and it was only after that I got back my Yahoo account.

Harrowing???? Yes, indeed. I have been a state of shock since then, suspicious of the internet and its working.

I informed Yahoo of this incident and they have taken some measures to safeguard my account from dangerous spammers. As for phishing, I have been researching a bit. Phishing originates from the word 'fishing'. It is a fake email (like the one I recieved from Yahoo) that is sent by unscruplous elements to get gullible individuals into revealing their passwords or other private information about their email or bank accounts. I know there are scores of people, intelligent and much more e-savvy than me who are aware of issues related to internet. But then there are those who do not think very seriously about what they do online and can be very easily duped as they aren't very aware of the underlying issues related to this medium.

Avatar: Message in 3D

2010-01-06T02:45:00.001-08:00

The more I watch Hollywood films, the more I feel that filmmakers write their scripts and time their releases according to political events that impact the world and the USA. The latest film that has confirmed my doubts is Avatar. For what would explain the release of this film, complete with visions of fantastic flora and fauna, on December 18, 2009, exactly on the day that the Climate Change conference culminated in Copenhagen with countries haggling over the level of emission cuts they would comply to. And I cannot put into order the kind of thoughts that crossed my mind while watching the film. Perhaps the storyline is a fantasy for the Western world, but not for many who live in Asia and Africa. The struggle of this animated group of tribals with a special language and lifestyle reminded me of the controversy over the Narmada Dam in India, where thousands of tribals have been displaced by the Narmada Dam; their natural surroundings destroyed, someone from Latin America may be able to relate the story to the destruction of the rainforest in their continent, an African may be able to link the story to a similar kind of exploitation and destruction of environment in their continent. If the USA really gets down to some soul searching it will find a similar struggle in it's backyard with the Red Indians, ditto with Australia who have suppressed the Aboriginals. So you see, it is not a new story for us but it certainly is a new story for the average Westerner who doesn't give a dime about where his coffee comes from or how many people where killed in Congo while mining the coaltan that makes the latest model of his cellphone work. If Avatar has a message then it is that of protecting the environment. The movie displays ongoing conflict between human and machine, technology and nature. The underlying message of the whole act of watching Avatar is: If you don't care for your environment you will finally have to just settle for experiencing natural wonders of this world in a dark theatre - with 3D glasses on.

Happy 2010!

Love: Comic Sans Serif

2009-08-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

Ages since I posted... well, you can say that I was literally swept of my feet. I'll save that story for another post. All I can say is that the final days of my semester saw myself in the flotsam of mess of things, suitcases, blankets, pillows, winter clothing, utensils, some of which I left behind in the cozy apartment in Aarhus.... A blotched visa was all I needed as cherry topping to this glorious mess of life.

Anyway, in between all this crazy travelling souvenirs are things we cherish. I had been collecting key chains from Paris, a Norwegian gloves from Oslo, but I found an interesting one at the Gothenburg Art Museum, Sweden. It would be nice to mention here that the Gothenburg Museum of Art has been awarded, a well deserved three stars in the Michelin Guide. After taking in all the Swedish and Dutch artists the museum had to offer, I strolled into the souvenir shop. Just when I thought that I wan't motivated enough to buy a souvenir, my eyes fell on an interesting title- Angry Little Girls in Love -by Lela Lee; a comic book, bande dessinee. Flipping through its glossy pages I found that the comic book was exactly what I wanted in life.

Consider this:

Boy: Should we order dessert?

Girl: Might as well. It may be the only sweetness you'll get tonight.

Girl: I keep meeting the wrong guys when will I meet 'the one'?
Boy: May be you meet the wrong guys so that when you do meet 'the one' you know and be grateful?

Girl: But when?
Boy: I don't know. May be tomorrow May be next year. May be in 8 years no one knows.

Girl: I hate the search for love. It's so disrepectful of my schedule

Boy: Are you with me because I am cute or are you with me because I'm buff?
Girl: No, Nope!
Boy: Then why are you with me?
Girl: Because we have so many faults in common.

Boy: ??

Trust comics to simplify life.

The Antichrist = the feminine?

2009-05-29T06:25:00.000-07:00

I had been trying to avoid it, considering my sensitivity to violence and horror, but it is difficult to be in Denmark and miss The Antichrist for all the attention it has attracted in Cannes for its sadist violence. I am sure everyone has read the reviews by now and got a hang the story. It has been described as "a psychological thriller that evolves into a horror film" by Trier himself.
The film begins with some beautiful scenes of lovemaking in black and white but turns morbid in the woods as it switches to colour. Perhaps an indication that lovemaking is simple but its consequences are not. A couple William Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg move to their forest cabin "Eden". The husband (they don't seem to have names) aims to help his wife to recover from the grief of the loss of their son. However, She seems to be going on a different psychological train. As the film progresses one gets into Her psyche who in the past has felt neglected and trivialised by Him. There is a mention of Her Phd thesis on women and sorcery that was termed as 'glib' by Him. There is one scene where He seems to be admonishing Her for not being critical of her texts. There is another wherein, She accuses him "of being distant from their son Nic, who died, and one where she says "I have never interested you until now." All signs of a film about gender war wherein a man feels he ought to take charge of his wife and put her 'in line' with his thoughts. She is a case of repressed feminine anger which bursts out uncontrollably in the form of unbridled violent sexuality, which finally leads to the denouement- the mutilation of sexual parts by Her. (This is where I closed my eyes and hid behind my big box of popcorns).

Trier, who is said to have been depressed during the making of this film, shows cinematic brilliance only in bits and parts. The beginning is beautiful in black and white, almost dreamy. The rest of it is raw. Perhaps that is what Trier wanted to show - the raw cruelty of nature- from his point of view. The only point when the woods turn interesting in the cinematic way is when She, who has been wanting violent sex, rushes out in the middle of the night to masturbate. She is later joined by Him and as they have sexual intercourse in the dark night the camera zooms out to show a lot of white, slender female bodies under the twisted roots of the tree. (As in the poster) As woman, I read this scene as the subjugation of women by the dark forces of nature. Apart from this there are just a lot of scenes of injured animals, a deer on the run while giving birth, a dead baby bird being eaten by an eagle. (uggghhh... my eyes were closed). As for the story, it was reminiscent of Smilla's Sense of Snow.

What I like is the portrayal of feminine emotions. Especially that of a woman in grief- who slips into depression and is unable to take control of herself. Adding to this is the frustration she feels about the way He wants to take charge of her emotions and heal her, when perhaps she has moved on to a different level. Charlotte Gainsbourg has done a great job of portraying this character. But I didn't like was the stoic man (Dafoe). After all, He too is a father and He too must be depressed after the death of his child. Being a therapist doesn't mean that he wouldn't be sad. Instead, he acts like a Man who has to charge of everything but himself.

Trier isn't perfect, but the idea that he wanted to portray is. It is not everyday that a male filmaker takes a plunge into depths of dark feminine emotions.

News from Africa

2009-05-21T11:29:00.000-07:00

Witchunt in Gambia

STOP PRESS

2009-05-18T09:06:00.001-07:00

Just as news of the death of the LTTE leader Prabhakaran trickles in, I thought I should share some scenes of support for the Tamil Tigers that I witnessed during my travels in Scandinavia. There are a number of Sri Lankan Tamils in Denmark, Sweden, Finland and Norway. The democratic culture of these countries allows such groups to peacefully protest. Norway is a mediator in the conflict between Sinhalas and the Tamil Tigers.

Supporters of LTTE protesting in Stockholm

.....and in Oslo before the Norwegian Parliament

How I ditched Clint Eastwood

2009-05-05T07:15:00.000-07:00

The macho profile of Clint Eastwood had given me the feeling that I am going to like Gran Torino. Its trailer during another movie was just as enticing. I thought he is going to be my reel-life father figure for a while. Sunday evening, I found myself waiting in queque at Biocity, an Aarhus multiplex. Once inside I found myself waiting for the film to start. But once it started all I wanted to do was run away. For Eastwood's character was so boorish, negative, like a man who has been hurt all his life, shards of glass planted in his soul.....in short he was a put off. I hated him from the opening scene. The way he watched his impudent grandchildren during his wive's funeral. What kind of a man would watch his spoilt grandchildren on his wive's funeral and what kind of a man would spit on the ground when his young granddaughter makes a request for piece of furniture for her room? And what kind of a man would tell a young priest that he was a '27-year-old over educated virgin, who held old women's hands and promised them of eternity?' Surely a very insensitive one- one who has overblown imagination of his masculinity.

I watched till the young priest meets the character of Eastwood in the bar to talk about confession. What kind of a priest would do that?? I walked out of the theatre - for I couldn't bear it anymore one man's boorish resistance to another's untimely attempt at redemption. I later realized the story was about his Chinese neighbours stealing his car- Gran Torino. Considering US anxiety about Chinese goods entering their markets - Gran Torino comes at an interesting time when US is going through a crisis and can (atleast cinematically) put the blame on the Chinese for all their troubles.

Meanwhile, Kate Winslet has caught my imagination. First with The Revolutionary Road and next with The Reader- the young protagonist of Titanic is shaped up into a fine actress- literally.

Hope she continues with her sensitive and soul stirring performances.

A question

2009-04-14T11:25:00.000-07:00

What is the difference between information and knowledge?

The writing on the Deewar (the Wall)

2009-03-22T02:29:00.000-07:00

Vijay: Mere pas gadi hai, bangla hai, paisa hai, tumhare pas kya hai?

(I have a car, a house, money, what do you have?)

Ravi: Mere pas ma hai
(I have mother)

This famous dialogue from the 1975 Amitabh Bachchan starrer, Deewar (The wall) is what came to my mind when I recently read about Amartya Sen's Capabilities Approach to development in his book Development as Freedom.
In this very famous scene from Deewar while elder brother Vijay (Amitabh Bachchan) has turned to the world of crime to make up for the hardship and poverty that he faced as a child younger brother Ravi (Shashi Kapoor) has followed the course of hardwork to become a police inspector. Ultimately, there come a point when the mother (Nirupa Roy) has to decide which of her sons she would like to live with. While Vijay gives a material reason for his mother to stay with him. Ravi gives a more emotional reason. When he says ' mere paas ma hai' (i have mother), Ravi implies that mother is valuable than money, car and house and she needs to be safe and looked after for her sake. In her old age she needs a place far away from crime and harassment i.e. mental peace.

Amartya Sen 's human capabilities approach emphasises on similar values. According to him income is a very limited way of assessing development. For him development is the freedoms or the capabilities that a human being has to better his life. It includes the freedom to participate in political life, access to education and health facilities, freedom from rigid bureaucracies or authoritarian regimes that constrain individuality, freedom of women, etc. For Sen, an individual should be capable enough to secure himself a happy life. However, in most societies of the world one sees a different kind of poverty, unrelated to income levels. In America, it could be inaccessible health care insurance for those suffering with life threatening diseases, in Saudi Arabia it could be the restrictions on the freedoms of women, in China it could be the curtailing of expression.

Development as Freedom, was published in 1999 and I think it is a great way to define development, considering that we all live in a consumeristic society where 'money talks'. We all have at some point or the other been pressurized to make career decisions simply because of the money involved. But if someone would rather be a painter than an engineer then there shouldn't be anything stopping him/her from being that. In fact a rich engineer who is frustrated with his job, abuses his wife and children can be considered poor. He is not only poor but with he is also a hindrance to development of the society due to his half-hearted efforts at work.

In fact, this whole idea of poverty as someone without money seems like a myth. If a poor man is happy being a cobbler, earning a substantial amount of income, sending his children to school and treating his wife well then he is developed and rich enough.

A compulsive confession

2009-03-07T14:18:00.001-08:00

How many Indian women would make a love list? I made one, just today on the eve of International Women's Day. And realised I had fallen in love 15 times to date. Right from the age of 10. It was a nice experience jotting down the names of these men whom I liked at various times in my life,or felt strongly for got involved for diverse reasons like intellectual, emotional and physical. All I can say is that I have got better over the years. For example at 16 I was in love with a guy who worked in the corporate world we were both excited about lying to our parents and meeting in secret.
At 22 I was sharing a deep intellectual and emotional equation with a man much older than me without expecting anything in return. At the age of 26 I shared a wonderful online relationship with a guy, perhaps an year older than me. We just met once but feel like we share an ancient bond. And at 29 I love a man for what he is.
I feel I have gained so much from these relationships. True, they have been heartbreaking and painful but enriching. Perhaps a way in which the waves of this world touch my heart and heal me.
So many of my friends going through relationships in which they don't know where they are heading ask for my advice. I always tell them to take it as an experience. Learn what you can about yourself, the other person and the world through it coz the heart has its own reasons.

In Hans Christian Andersen land

2009-02-08T09:25:00.001-08:00

I had seen Andersen land only in my dreams
and here I am lock, stock and barrel

in a frozen country of cold winds

where the sun shines over gentle snow storms

Yes, that's exactly what I saw today just the sun shining(after almost week since my arrival here) while a gentle snow storm swept over the city of Aarhus in Denmark. I wonder what made me choose Denmark as my host university while filling up the Erasmus forms. But then I remember it was the courses they were offering and perhaps a curiosity to see a Scandinavian country. Cold, is a word frozen on my lips since the day of arrival here. Yes, It is cold. especially so when the wind rises up the Aarhus bay and sweeps across the city. No god forsaken rue in the city can save you from that cold biting wind. But the city is beautiful. A little old in some places and pretty new in others. Though the structure of the city is very much the same as other European cities what makes it special are the old brick work buildings. The university building especially stand out because of their brick work in coloured in beige. The green creepers wrapped around gives it a dramatic effect. Aarhus is the second largest city in Denmark after Copenhagen. But believe me this is no laid back university town. A walk down the the alleys of downtown Aarhus one can have eyeful of Danish designs whether it is clothes, accessories or utensils, the Danes seem to be extremely stylish in their tastes. And that's not all, I have already had a taste of some Danish fast food called Ribbensburger. It is just yum. Things are really expensive here, and the Danish Krone is not as strong as the Euro. (One euro would be about seven DKK).

But Danish as a language can be a real pain. I have already lost my way a million times since last week simply because I can't register the names in my head. I can barely manage to pronounce the name of the street I live on. That's it for now from Hans Christian Andersen land.

Of words

2009-01-17T09:23:00.000-08:00

They burn, explode, shoot
shower, twinkle and sparkle
Their splendid burst of meanings dazzle

Only to leave
a debri of emotions
To be swept away the next day

An evening in Paris

2008-12-30T06:23:00.000-08:00

I never thought I would scream. But I did when I saw the Eiffel tower on a cold Paris evening. I don't know what it was: perhaps the shock of catching sight of this giant iron structure lit up in blue or the fact that for a while, myself and Ren, my Chinese friend, were lost in the streets behind the tower, with only the light from the tower as our guiding light, before we suddenly caught sight of it behind a cluster of residential building, rising high up in glory. All lit in blue. And suddenly as if une riposte to our excited screams the tower was sparkling in white light.

I always thought, despite the years spent in mastering French, that Paris was a bit hyped. But not anymore. Not since I lay my eyes on the Blue Eiffel. It will be lit up in blue till the end of 2008 as France has the presidency of the European Union this year( 2008). Meanwhile myself and Ren had our own interpretation of le tour Eiffel, while she went with the traditional interpertation of it as a phallic symbol, I thought it was more like a woman who has spread out her legs, for that's what I felt like- standing in between the legs of a woman.

The next day I slipped, not on a Parisien pavement, but at the Louvre. After having an eyeful of sculptures, painting and of course the magical Mona Lisa I slipped in the Louvre souvenir shops from where I bought Mona Lisa magnets and Da vinci post cards, an Egyptian calender, keychains and a Louvre cube. I don't think I have spent money so much without thinking as I have at the Louvre. I think I bought enough of Louvre to remind me of the trip for the rest of my life. The next two days were spent on the bateau mouche on the Seine. A lovely boat ride that brought tears to my eyes, a visit to Sacre Coeur and the Montmarte, the artists colony behind it it, Moulin Rouge, la Sorbonne and last but not the least the Notre Dame cathedral. Paris, je t'aime.

Reaction

2008-12-04T08:04:00.000-08:00

honestly, i am jammed
stuck
with a lot of words
that have clamoured at the same time
in my head

of course I am angry
very
and erupting
like the rest of them

who suddenly wake up one day
to find that they live
in the ruins
that they once glorified

the light is piercing
yes,
like the sunlight that enters the mind
after a dark dream of twilight

and it is heavy
this burden of knowledge
that sat in a corner
disinterested, boring

until it exploded one day
straight into the eyes
blinding
light

Bienvenue chez north-south divide

2008-11-24T11:37:00.001-08:00

I thought this was something that happened only in India. This divide between North and South, but a recent French film opened my eyes to the fact that it exists everywhere, of course, not at the same grand level as it exists in India. Bienvenue chez les ch'tis(Welcome home to shti) starring Kad Merad, (an actor who has been winning French hearts with his bald pate and charms) and Dany Boon, is a film about the north-south divide in France. Philippe Abrams (Kad Merad) works for the French postal department. He pretends to be a handicapped to obtain a coveted post in south of France. However, once his ploy is discovered by the transfer officer he is given a transfer to the Northern end of France(Bergues). Now as a Southerner, Abrams and his family have a steretypical image of northern France as being cold- not just literally, and savage. To top it at all the ch'ti dialect spoken in the north sounds alien to this sophisticated southerner.

With a heavy heart Abrams moves to the north leaving his wife and child in the south, only to find that he enjoys the northerners' joie de vivre,cuisine, and back slapping attitude and once Abrams gets a hang of the northerner's accent things become even great.

The difference, as I can make out between ch'ti French and the rest of French is that they prefer saying Sh'est bon, instead of C'est bon and Sha va instead of ca va?. They also have a different set of phrases. The French spoken in the northern parts is more influenced by Flemish.

Dany Boon, who plays the role of Antoine, the post man who can't refuse an offer to drink at every door he visits has done a great job as the director and screen writer of the film as he managed to make a film that has had the whole country laughing for the past one year.

Not only that, the French public doesn't seem to have had enough of this film that released in February 2008, there are Bienvenue... cards, games, comics all over France.

A great example of a film that bridges the north-south divide.

Touching bases

2008-11-12T04:12:00.000-08:00

How does it feel to come to India after an year of living abroad??? Well... the feeling is of exhiliration when the plane touches Indian soil, especially if it is on a Diwali night when the familiar smell of crackers permeates into the aircraft when it is still a 1000 ft up in the air.
The wait at the baggage belt is painful, when you know your family is out there among the crowd and your just aching to meet them. You want to just abandon the never-ending wait for baggage and run outside.
Once the baggage arrives you zip outside, searching through faces, have they changed? is the thought and when you spot them, the answer is 'of course not!!!' they are just a bit taller, fatter or thinner or just the same.
And then the rest of the days just fly by. It takes a day or two to get over the jet lag and the sleeplessness and then, since this visit involved marriage, the relatives start pouring in. And yes, they are all still the same. The same smiles, the same looks, the same anxieties.
And then the D-Day arrives and everyone is in their best. The day just flies off, from home to church to party a day sprinkled with laughter and tears, and before you know it you have a new and beautiful member in your family, one whose shoulders you can put your dear ones anxieties.
The days fly and before you know you have an upset tummy, something that tells you that you are a foregner in your own country. The spices, the oils don' t excite but rather irritate your tummy. Apart from that you notice that you are breathing the smog, of dust, smoke and supressed desires, that has unlocked all my inner thoughts, and then you know it is time to say goodbye and that the short visit is already over.

My First French Song

2008-10-26T14:24:00.000-07:00

This was a song I learnt years back in my French class. I was overwhelmed by the power of its lyrics and the power of its voice Edith Piaf. A lovely song sung by a voice that grows on you over the ears, a voice you discover each time you hear it. It is a song that marks new beginnings and a new life. Here I have tried to give a translation of the lyrics.

Je ne regrette rien

Non! Rien de rien
(No...nothing)

Non ! Je ne regrette rien
(I regret nothing)
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait
(Neither the good)
Ni le mal tout ça m'est bien égal !
(Nor the bad, everything is equal for me)
Non ! Rien de rien
(No...nothing)
Non ! Je ne regrette rien
(I regret nothing)

C'est payé, balayé, oublié
(It is paid, cleansed and forgotten)

Je me fous du passé !
(The past doesn't bother me anymore)

Avec mes souvenirs
(With my memories)

J'ai allumé le feu
(I lit a fire)
Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs
(of my sorrows and joys)
Je n'ai plus besoin d'eux !
(I don't need them anymore)
Balayées les amours
(cleansed of all the loves)

Et tous leurs trémolos
(and their tremblings)
Balayés pour toujours
(cleansed forever)
Je repars à zéro
(I start once again from zero)
Non ! Rien de rien
(no...nothing)

Non ! Je ne regrette rien
(No I regret nothing)
Ni le bien, qu'on m'a fait
(neither the good)
Ni le mal, tout ça m'est bien égal !
(nor the bad)
Non ! Rien de rien
(no... nothing)
Non ! Je ne regrette rien
(No, I regret nothing)
Car ma vie, car mes joies
(Because from now on my life and my joy)
Aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi !
(Today, they start with you)

Topless!

2008-10-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

No, No this is not a 'compulsive confession'. (I am sure many of you in the Indian blogosphere know what I mean). It is just an account of the Radio Pulmonaire exam that I have to go through for the Carte de sejour. Well... I had heard you have to get topless so that the doctor gets a better impression of the lungs. But did it have to be male doctor??? Anyway, I was directed to a room to remove my clothes (only above the belt) and wait for the doctor to call me. When he called, I was frozen in the room and then he just pushed open the door and in a second I had covered my assets with my hands and then I had to walk across the room(in front of the doc!!!) hold my chest against this metal plate with diagrams on it. He then told me to tie my hair and oh la la... just want to forget those embaressing seconds when both my hands were tying my hair with my back towards him and during which time he queried in English, "Do you speak French?"
I wonder what he saw, my heavy shoulders, the sprigs of hair under my arms and of course, the brown back...
That over, the doctor ordered 1,2,3... Gonflez...(breath in to expand lungs). I heard a click sound somewhere in the room and then I was just relieved to run back into the room and grab my clothes and run out of the camion radio pulmonaire

The 'dependent' visa

2008-09-27T11:26:00.000-07:00

I remember how a friend of mine was delighted when her boyfriend got a job in the US. "It's going to be great! Our lives are there now!" she exclaimed. Two years and an MBA later she was an Indian wife in the USA, waiting for her husband to come back home. On a visit back home she sounded so subdued, contrary to her actual disposition. Her problem was because she was on an H4 visa or a dependent visa that stopped her from working as she was considered a 'dependent' of her spouse. For all the glamour and charm that USA evokes, it is really bad on women who chose a husband working in the country. If the husband is on an H1B visa i.e. a working visa the wife (or the dependent/s) have to accompany him on an H4 visa which is nothing but suicide, especially for those women who had a career back home or are keen to test the professional waters of the USA. Getting an H4 visa converted into an H1B visa is a long procedure. First, one has to find a job that meets with ones qualification, then one has to find someone who is willing to sponsor you and then you get the H1B visa. One of the easiest way to get an H1B visa is to join the IT baracks, by doing a small software course. But not all women are interested or have an mind for IT.
Before anybody can thinking of doing something, that is not IT, they are enveloped by this feeling of illegality, the feeling that they are not supposed to do what they feel like doing. Also back home in India, there is this romantic idea about the educated, working woman, leaving everything to become a housewife in America. It is almost as if the comfortable apartment and all the goodies of the capitalist world will swallow this inherent desire of the woman to realise herself. As if all actually a woman wants is a beautiful home. But the desire always remains.Some go to school- mostly IT, some work with people they know, of course, secretly and hoping that one day they will get an H1B for whatever they do(my friend got hers after seven years), while some stay at home pining and having a baby to keep themselves occupied.
Such a state impacts the relationship of the couple. It is almost as if the woman on an H4 visa has come to the USA, as a maid and babymaker.
The L1 and L2 visas allow both partners to work, but the H4 doesn't give you any space.

High and Dry

2008-09-23T12:59:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I wonder, just what am I doing here. Living on two Euros a day, waiting for my bourse to come into the bank account to which I am yet to get access to, running to the prefecture in the afternoon when I should be in class, to get my papers for Italy sorted out,
wearing the same jacket everyday as I left out some of the heavy winter clothing while packing.
The only silver lining during my time in France is Pain au chocolat: a very soft bun with a layer of chocolae in it. It is what lifts me up on bleak, cold days and of course the ubiquitous croissant. The only two soft things that keep me going during these hard days.....

Voyage -II

2008-09-18T07:12:00.000-07:00

Il est une heure du matin. One O'clock in the morning and I have woken up from sleep. I sleep which I allowed myself to fall into 12 hours ago. I guessed it was the jetlag afterall, it is 3 three days since I landed in France and I really haven't slept, except in the night, when in my little studio I drift to sleep sans internet or music or the energy to read, after a long day of running around.
France for all its romance, beauty and of course the lovely language is another name for paperwork. The first thing a person with a visa de long sejour HAS to do when the reach France is obtain a carte de sejour or a residency card, within a WEEK of ones arrival. The long stay visa expires after a period of three months and after that the carte de sejour establishes you as legal in the country. Further, one can travel anywhere in the Schengen zone without a visa and with a carte de sejour. However, wonderful the carte de sejour may seem like it is hardwork, paperwork and of course translations. One needs a translated copy of the birth certificate, all pages of the passport including visa, proof of residence, carte d'etudiant or student card or a letter of pre-inscription in the university. Those with a better understanding of the French language would know that there is a difference between admission (admis) and enrollment (inscrit). You are given a date of appointment at the prefecture. In my case it was held in the Espace de vie Etudiante (EVE) Universite Stendhal, Grenoble and then a date for collecting the reciept or the recepisse and then two days are alloted for medical examination and then a date is assigned for recieving the residency card. Thanks to all the running around, paperwork and a bit of planning I have already got my recepisse (which is almost half the residency card, except that one is not advised to travel with that) and expect my residency card in mid-October. I guess the only advice I can give to those with a visa de long sejour or long stay visa to France is apply for you carte de sejour ASAP you arrive in France.
But being an Erasmus Mundus scholar has its own challenges I guess. All EM Comundus scholars are supposed to travel to Chianciano Terme, Italy in the first week of October. If I was fast with the carte de sejour I am bad with the Italian visa. When I called up to fnd out my possibility of getting a visa to Italy I was told that I should have applied for it in my country of residence itself. All possibility of travel seemed to be bleak as I don't even have my carte de sejour. However, after a lot of telephone calls made by the directrice to the prefecture I was handed over a form for demande de visa when I went to collect my recipisee. Hoping that would be the solution.
But somewhere between all the running around I caught glimpses of Grenoble. It's literally heaven on earth as I have spotted clouds touching the earth on days of impending rain. there is an excellent network of trams and buses pass through roads and tracks laid out near to old churches and buildings. The two weekends have been lousy as the weather turned completely bleak with the wind howling all night long outside my window, accompanied by rain. However, on my first weekend I was invited for a lovely French lunch at the residence of Marie-Ann and Michel Merland, who really very old residents of Grenoble. After having sumptuous meal and makign a round of there beautiful home. I was accompanied by another one of their friends Mirelle to go up to the Bastille or the old Fort that lined the distant hill. It was my first trip on a ropeway up the hill. From the top one could see the two rivers of Grenoble- L'Isere et le Drac winding there way across this charming city which was the venue of the Winter Olympics in 1968.We trudged down on foot, roamed the centre-ville or the city centre, Palais de justice and an old church. That's France, for now.

Musical Tree

2008-09-11T08:44:00.000-07:00

The lobby of the Experience Music Project in Seattle.
The museum has a special section on Jimi Hendrix, evolution of the electric guitar, and Latin American music.

The sculpture is titled If VI was IX- The Roots and Branches Sculpture by aritist and composer Trimpin. It is composed of nearly 700 musical instruments of which 40 are computer controlled, self playing guitars which perform a series of Trimpin compositions expressive of the roots of American popular music like Jazz, blues, country, folk and rock.

Voyage- I

2008-09-09T11:55:00.000-07:00

Before I speak of this journey I guess I should talk a bit about the previous one made almost a month ago. The destination:San Francisco. Mission: French visa. It was a journey made in a night by car. We reached just in time in a decent fashion for the appointment and after much questioning I was told that I would get a two year schengen visa considering that the Comundus: Erasmus Mundus programme requires me to travel to two European universities. However, finally a lady in the corner, whom I now gather was the visa officer, asked me some more questions and decided that i get a visa of three months. Yeah three months - for a program spanning almost two years! Well I came out of the consulate and after much humming and hawing realised that yes the Visa de Long Sejour for France is like that three months with a requirement for carte de sejour, but then what was the need to mention a two year schengen visa??? Anyway.... that afternoon slipped away at the Fisherman's Wharf, Lombard street and of course, the Golden Gate. Finally we made our way out of San Francisco to the town of Los Altos. the town with a clearly Mexican flavour smelt of India, what with the people, the heat and the loud music.
The next day it was time to hit the road again and this time through the US 101 that connects Seattle to San Francisco. The route boasts of some beautiful scenary as it runs along the Pacific coast. Driving through the state of Oregon we initially drove through a Redwood forest. Giant Redwoods towered above us as boards like "the world famous tree house" and "Bigfoot" flashed past us. Once out of the fairy tale zone we hit Eureka a unique city with streets named according to the English alphabet. So we had streets A, B, C, D.... it was really weird passing through Eureka on a moonlit night. Once again we entered wooded country, this time with the Elk sign flashing past us. and yes, we did spot a shy elk cowering away in the dark away from the bright lights of the car. But the most adventrous part of the night was yet to come. At Port Orford Oregon, when an overconfident hubby looked at the gas situation it was near to empty. On approaching a gas station we realised that the state of Oregon does not allow a driver to administer fuel him/herself. Someone authorised at the gas station has to do it. well.... well.. well... here we were between two gas stations and none had anybody in the middle of the night to give us some fuel. Drivng around looking for someone to open the petrol station was useless, as this sleepy town had already gone to bed. So here we were in the middle of the night in the middle of two gas stations. All we could do was talk and catch some sleep in the car. ultimately at 7:30 am a gas station opened and we were the first customers. Lesson: Always have extra fuel while travelling through Oregon. Just in case.
But I guess the stop was a blessing in disguise. If we had passed through Oregon in the night we wouldn't have been able to see the beauty that the state is. Oregon, despite its weird gas law is beautiful due to its proximity to the Pacific ocean. Apart from the Pacific shore, there are the Oregon dunes, the orchards and the vineyards. After experiencing a slice of the Pacific shore in the morning hubby(who is good with all things cars and roads) took a detour into oregon country and touched Tillamook- the cheese town and from there onwards we drove to the lovely Rockaway Beach were we spotted a colony of sea gulls and of course and the sun set.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

2008-08-18T12:44:00.000-07:00

Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Fast Forward?

2008-07-04T12:48:00.000-07:00

Three-year-old girl, found by Kerala police, doesn't know where she is from. the contents of this forward sounded familiar. I had read about this case some two years back but why was this coming around as a forward now? It seems someone was trying to locate the parents of this little girl who couldn't pronouce the name of the place she was from, she was from. Anyway, ignoring my better and wiser instincts, giving into sentimentality, I forwarded the email to all and sundry only to get an email from my younger, but wiser sibling that such emails are nothing but a ploy to get hold of email addresses.

I felt totally ashamed and stupid of myself. How could I have been so vulnerable to a forward? I guess the information age is getting the better of us. And since then whenever I get forwards I take a few minutes to verify whether or not the information given in them is correct. For example, recently I recieved a forward about a men's restroom designed by a company called Edge Designs, apparently it is an interior decoration company run by women and they designed this men's restroom for a company based in NYC that was run by women executives.

Of course, as someone who believed in women's lib I was impressed. A row of well-dressed women with expressions of surprise, and amusement as men stripped to reveal their assets. But a quick session of googling revealed that this restroom mural does exist but not in a restroom in NYC but in the Sofitel hotel in Queenstown, New Zealand and designed by Perron Developments.

Edge Designs, it turns out is a fictitious company. My hypothesis is that this is a case of the jealous American. Afterall, how could something as interesting, amusing and liberating as this restroom be created by non-Americans. So before, this restroom at the Sofitel Hotel, which by the way has been getting a lot of publicity, gained world wide publicity an American decided to appropriate it by the way of spreading this misinformation.

This is a helpful link to the truth about the mural. http://www.snopes.com/photos/arts/sofitel.asp

I am surprised that some people have actually posted the picture on their blogs crediting the design to Edge Designs. That just shows how blindly we are taking in information generated by forwards. Stories about Osama Bin laden dead virus, Christ-look alike in Siberia, the shortest woman in the world(who surprisingly looked beautiful and petite) and of course a more recent one about the burnt baby in a hospital in Poland. Once again the picture was heart rending,(too grotesque to post it on the blog) a baby with its face half burnt, its' ear ripped off.

The message with the forward was that with each forward would raise 3 cents for the baby's treatment. Once again, with a little googling I realised that there did exist a burnt baby in a hospital in Poland and the burn marks on the baby's face on the photograph was not manipulated. But then there exists a separate fund that was collecting money for the baby's treatment. There is no way in which the forwarding of the message could generate money for the injured child. And suddenly the forward seems like a cruel joke on the child and the world as a whole.

Check this link for the truth about the Polish baby and ways to fund her treatment.

http://atrapa.net/chains/olaen.htm

Forwards are just great if they are restricted to stories, jokes or interesting pictures. But why should they go around the world spreading wrong information or using individuals, tapping at our vulnerability and ignorance?

Notes from interesting times

2008-06-07T12:12:00.000-07:00

Woman in Charge, Women who charge

Baby Shower = Woman Power

2008-06-01T13:19:00.000-07:00

Two months ago, when I was invited a baby shower (the American version of the Indian godd bharai) I grabbed it the way I grab all things American these days. So here I was in a house full of Mexicanas chattering happily, excitedly. My socialising was limited to words like Como estas? (How are you) Estoy bien(I am fine) Si (Yes), muy bien(very good). But the loud, cheerful, Mexicana chatter was like music to my ears and I sat there smiling at everybody, blissfully participating in a game, wherein all women sat on chairs in a circle with pacifier hanging around their neck. The one who crosses her legs has to give up the pacifier and the one who never cross their legs throughout the evening got to keep it. Anyway, my game was up in the first half and hour of my arrival as I absent mindedly crossed my legs. Games apart as I looked around to take a look at the subject of the baby shower I saw young, petite, hermosa looking radiant in her seventh month of pregnancy. And where is the lucky man who gets to be the father of her child? A Q&A session with the women who accompanied me revealed that there was no father in the picture and the young lady was a single mother. Oh! So then kudos to the woman and her family for having made the decision to have the baby.
I could have allowed myself to guess her age as 22. But she looked too young for that number. Perhaps 19, no 17. That's the farthest I could allow her age to be. But as she posed for pictures with her schoolmates who didn't look a day older than 14. I was baffled once again. Another round of Q&A revealed that the young lady was only 14! Bravo! But then what about things like having a baby after the age of 18 as a woman is not considered to be strong enough to carry the baby. By now I realised I am on uncharted territory. A place where ideas I grew up with are being challenged. In India or any eastern society nobody celebrates a pregnant 14-year-old. She is either a result of child marriage or rape. In case she is the result of a love affair then family and society make sure that she aborts the child.
I don't know if a 14-year-old can decide whether or not to become a mother, but I believe in this case the young lady's mother encouraged her to keep the baby and two days I ago I came to know that the young woman gave birth to a baby boy.
I'd seen the camaradrie and strength of Hispanic women in films by Pedro Almodavar (Todos Sobres mi madre and Volver) but I never thought I would be caught in the midst of it.

Some updates:
*EYE has been awarded an Erasmus Mundus scholarship

*EYE has started a new column (right side panel) Espace Poetique, which will showcase blog poetry.

El Habitante Incierto?

2008-05-30T23:26:00.000-07:00

Japanese woman lives in a closet

It's raining cars!

2008-05-04T12:19:00.000-07:00

The entrance (top) and the ticketing area(above)of the Seattle Art Museum

An Early Bird at Pike Place Market

2008-05-01T22:16:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday when I lay awake on my bed at 4 am I knew I had to go somewhere- Seattle's Pike Place Market, I had heard that it revs up early in the morning and is one of USA's oldest farmer's markets(Last year it completed 100 years). So there I was one-and-a half hour later, catching the first bus to downtown Seattle. Early morning is a good time to walk around Seattle, get oneself familiar with crisscrossing avenues and the long winding streets. I got down at 4th Pine, near the Monorail station, made my way to the waterfront, along which the Pike Place market is situated. The waterfront looked tantalising from afar. After catching a cup of coffee at a downtown coffee shop and browsing through an international newspaper stand. I made my way to the market. Among the many shops, that were open in this tunnel shaped market early morning, was a fish stall and some flower stalls. While the fish stall had a variety of shrimps, lobsters, crabs, sardines, mackerals and of course, salmon, the speciality of the Northwest region. Among the flowers, it was tulips, tulips and more tulips, except for a section of dry flowers.

The shops were opening slowly, there was a lot of unloading of fish. Fresh vegetables and fruits were also in sight. And as I paused for a short while at a spot from where one could enjoy thewaterfront I instatly felt I was in India. Perhaps in a place like Kodaikanal, or Mussourie where there are special spots from where one can take a look at the mountains and the and mist and the valley. And as I walked on, I stopped at a small restaurant called Lowell's which promised breakfast with a panoramic view of the waterfront. Seattle, if one looks carefully at the map of USA, is a city locked with islands and fjords. So despite its proximity to the Pacific Ocean one has to traverse a few more islands and land mass to get to the actual ocean. Meanwhile, this bit of ocean locked in by the islands is called the Puget Sound. The sorrounding areas with its countless number of lakes-the largest of them being Lake Washington, and a whole lot of natural beauty and habitat is called the Puget Sound Area.

So, after ordering some simple toast and coffee I made myself comfortable on the third floor of the restaurant, which seemed to be perched on a piece of land. Once again, as I sat back and watched the waters of the Puget Sound glistening at a distance, the ferries and trawlers going back and forth. The coffee shop was actually overlooking Elliot Bay. Right below me was what one would call the back alleys of the city. Somewhere ahead there was a hotel facing the waterfront. I also realised that the Seattle Aquarium is a structure jutting out into the sea.

After breakfast a walked a bit more, this time some more shops had opened. I bought honey straws from woman who was selling some flavoured country honey, eyed a bakery shop with some heavily frosted muffins, there was even a pasta shop selling different varieties of pastas and fettucinni, an artists stall selling paintings of the Pike Place market, from where I bought two visiting card sized paintings of the Pike Place with magnets. It was 9:30 am - time for me to head back home

Your guide to Tamil

2008-04-22T19:15:00.001-07:00

http://tasveerghar.net/stamil/

Oh my Ghosh!

2008-04-12T13:56:00.000-07:00

I am not a Bengali, but I watch Rituparno Ghosh, and he has never disappointed me. I have seen most of the films of this director who I think is next only to Ray. Some I have made it a point to watch. Despite the hordes of excited Bengalis that block tickets, seats and doorways during film festivals and other screenings where a Ghosh is running in Delhi, I have always made my way toute seule through the crowds and into the dark theatre where Ghosh unfolds his drama, understanding and insight.

So it is no surprise that I immediately grabbed the latest Ghosh available on DVD- Antarmahal-View from the inner chamber(2006) at a local Indian DVD store. And as I said before he never disappointed me. Antarmahal is the story set in 19th century Bengal. Bhubaneshwar Chowdhary (Jackie Shroff) a power obsessed patriarch, who has abandoned his first wife (Mahomaya) of 12 years for a younger, youthful Yashomati(Soha Ali Khan), in the hope of having a a male heir. His other desire is the title of Rai Bahadur, which can get only if he appeases the local British Government. In order to do so, he decides to give the effigy of Goddess Durga the face of Queen Victoria during the Durga Pooja celebration, much to the displeasure of the local Brahmins.

As his attempts to impregnate his wife fail, he decides to perform intercourse according to Vedas, that will ensure a male child. Traumatised and humiliated Yashomati contemplates suicide the morning after the first night of this intercourse. Mayomati, the first wife, reaches out to console her. Meanwhile, Brij Bhushan (Abhishek Bachchan), the artist who is to sculpt the face of queen Victoria, is silent, perplexed, observer.

As the day of the Pooja arrives the pressure to acquire a social sanction for erecting a Durga with the face of Queen Victoria increases. The Brahmins, taking advantage of the situation make the most presposterous of demands to which Chowhury agrees after much consternation. Ultimately, the day of Pooja arrives and the statue of the Durga is unveiled. The crowd is scandalised, and Chowdhury is devastated by what he sees.

Throughout the film one can's help but think of this contradiction that on one hand the idol of a goddess is being made to worship and honour the feminine, while in reality, the women are leading a life of hell inside the house. While Brij Bhushan gently sculpts the female giving it a power and meaning of its own, the Chowdhury uses and abuses the feminine to meet his own selfish ends. Ultimately, the silent, the suffering and the beautiful conquers and destroys.

At a larger level, the film highlights the anixieties of a patriarchal male zamindars who are anxious about their authority in the times of British domination. The former simply take out their frustrations on their women.

Ghosh is the only one who understands life, in the Indian way and particularly the feminine way - his protagonists are almost always women and a diverse variety of them with their own dynamics and politics. Perhaps the most diverse and fascinating set of women was in Shubho Mahurat (The Auspicious Time, 2003), who were the story, substance and drama and, of course, the beauty of the film. The film starred among many other interesting actors Sharmila Tagore and Rakhee Gulzar in lead roles and was a brilliant Indian Agatha Christique detective story.
Of course, Ghosh has grown over the years from Dahan(1991) to Titli(Butterfly) in 2002, wherein a post pubescent Konkana Sen Sharma played a besotted fan of a popular Bengali film star, to Raincoat (2004) wherein a poor, lonely and bored housewife (Aishwarya Rai) lies to her former lover (Ajay Devgan) about the lavish lifestyle she is has after marriage. Probably one should say he comes a full circle again in Dosar(2007) where he works with Konkana again.

Ghosh is one of those directors who have not only transcended the boders of his region to reach out to the whole of India and the world, literally, by casting from the Mumbai film industry but also metaphorically, through his deep understanding of human nature, emotions, and the play of life.

A scam in the closet

2008-04-05T14:50:00.000-07:00

Is poetry.com a scam?? a little research before I sent them an unpublished poem of mine for the 'Best of 2007' yielded the following results:

http://poetrynotcom.tripod.com/
http://www.ciao.co.uk/poetry_com__Review_5301554
http://www.writing.org/html/a_poetry_scams.htm
http://www.hoax-slayer.com/poetry-scam.html
http://www.spamlaws.com/poetry-scams.html

and many more sites where those who have been decieved by the International Library of Poets have written their version. So decide for yourself

Eating the humble American Cake

2008-03-31T18:41:00.000-07:00

Blame it on the television (read food network), the Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year season and just the empty mind which in this case, became the artist's workshop; after watching series and series of a program titled Ace of Cakes, I decided to enroll for a cake decorating course at local art and craft stores.

My fascination with these huge American stores with miles and miles of aisles of every little thing that a human being imagines s/he needs, is another story in itself. I really become this wide eyed little lost girl in the woods simply taking in those creations before comprehending them completely and ultimately deciding what I really need. So one can imagine my fascination for this store called Michaels Art and Craft that stocks every imaginable thing that a creative mind needs.

But coming to cake decorating at Michaels which was being organised by Wilton Cake Decorators, with special discounts for Valentines, I went in with stars in my eyes, with dreams of one day becoming a cake decorator in the truely American style, working in a bakery and making flowers, castles, gardens, forests and cities...the world out of butercream and probably gumpaste someday. But on the first day the long list of things I am supposed to get for the next week, (apart from the Wilton Cake decorating kit that comprised, decorating tips, bags, board.. and the Wilton Cake decorating book). The list included parchment paper, classroom butter icing made with Crisco shortening atleast six sets of icing with different consistencies, the cone shaped icing bag fitted with couplers to hold the icing tips, and a BAKED cake. The next class, with a badly mixed and mixed up set of icing was a disaster. As the rest of the women continued icing their cake, filling the icing of the colours of their choice into their transparent icing bags. EYE, simply kept watching as the icing on my cake was declared 'bad' by the instructor. I sat next to her like a child who had lost her school bag, watching the rest of them fill their cakes with colours, practicing making small stars with whatever icing I had. And as the rest of the cakes filled with stars my heart filled with sorrow for I had dreamt of each one of the colours that were splashed across the cakes.

The dam broke when I reached home and all I wanted to do was catch a plane and get back to India, leaving behind this land of complicated, elaborated icing and cakes to home sweet home. My hubby a pastry chef himself, consoled me and all we did the whole of Valentine day was redo the icing and ice the cake again. EYE, ultimately topped it with a heart made of little pink stars:)

The next class was better as I took an irregularly cut and hence thickly iced cake to class,with the unending list of things. I realised that I was so lost getting the unending list of things together that I ended up forgetting something or the other. So in the second class if I had all the things I didn't have a properly iced cake and in the second class if I had a properly iced cake I didn't have a, say my design board laminated for practice. So the balance kept tilting.

In the third class I managed to get the two jokers that everyone was making on their cakes sit up straight on mine. I even managed one that was lying down. My mind raced as I kept imagining the 1oo different poses the joker could take on my cake. I realised I just didn't have the patience to get them down their, so how much ever excited I was about decorating my cakes with flowers, jokers, girls and boys, it required patience and perseverance which seemed something I could only develop in the very long run.

Suddenly I understood the cause behind American obesity -- all the buttercream icing that adorned the cakes, cookies and muffins in the bakery. I can imagine the sentimental American under a mood swing, gulping down a heavily decorated piece of cake and gaining pounds in seconds.

The fourth and the last class, the day of the final cake, I took to class a neatly iced chocolate cake made with Pillsbury low sugar cake mix. We learned to make roses in this last class of session one. The instructor thought my thick petaled roses were beautiful and suggested I should put it on the cake. By the end of it I had a not-so-neat rose shrub of about eight roses on my cake with green leaves coming out of them. Finally I had my rose though not without knowing the thorns.

All attempts by my instructor to enroll me for the next session of cake decorating failed. Coz I know despite all the designs that my mind was working on. I knew that it took more than just a bag of colourful icing to make the cake of your dreams.

Congratulations Delhi Poetree

2008-02-24T15:56:00.000-08:00

Congratulations Delhi Poetree for having found the first 100 poets of Delhi. In a city, where malls, metros, media, rush, smoke, traffic and generally everything is pushing all that was once beautiful and romantic about this city, especially the poets, underground, Amit Dahiya Badshah has managed to evolve a movement which brought together poets of every shape and size. From young wannabes with two poems in their pockets to veterans who have probably had a 1000 secret poems in their personal dossiers, Amit brought everyone together on one table, every Tuesday evening 6:45 pm at the open Palm Court, Habitat Centre, New Delhi. The forum is open to anyone who loves poetry, never mind how good or bad they write and what professions they pursue. And thats what I liked about Delhi Poetree. Here was a place where one could read out whatever one wrote without fearing any kind of criticism that could hurt ones morale and yet learn a lot about writing and reading poetry.The aim of Delhi Poetree is to give the city of Delhi 30 readings of poetry a month and ensure that every poet earns a taxable income from Poetry. In a way that elevates poetry from a poor man's muse or the rich man's indulgence (atleast when it comes to India) to an interest that if honed can bring you recognition. Kudos to Amit Dahiya Badshah for bringing back the spirit of poetry back to Delhi. I am sure Ghalib will be happy when he comes to Delhi this time.

A Saramago tale

2008-01-27T21:26:00.000-08:00

Anyone read a Jose Saramago and survived it?I started reading his latest, Seeing ,mid-December. All my illusions about tucking into bed with a hot cup of coffee with Saramago in hand on a cold winter evening where thrown out of the window as the narrative started freaking me out. Firstly, Saramago makes the minimal use of punctuation marks. A comma here, a full stop there, that's it, For Jose Saramago seems to be writing in one breath, leaving the reader rather breathless after a while. He also can't seem to waste much time over quotation or question marks or ellipses. He is a man with a story to tell and he can't let a quotation mark, or for that matter a paragraph, interrupt him.
Following Saramago is just a matter of concentration. As readers we tend to get so used to punctuation marks mapping the narrative that we just take them for granted and expect them to be there helping us to chart our way through the words guiding us to the complete meaning of things. But Saramago believes in no such charity. He just writes as it comes. No quotes. No paras (perhaps one every 50 pages)
Now that I was slowly understanding Saramago and his style, the man,( a noble prize winner) his mind and his story I resolved to finish the book. For last year, somewhere around the same time I had started reading his The Gospel According to Jesus Christ and left it half way as I found myself losing my way frequently in an interesting yet paraless, quotation less story. While The Gospel...was about Jesus Christ, his parents Mary and Joseph , a recurrent figure of a beggar and Joseph's guilt, Seeing is a political novel about a certain election day in a nameless province of a nameless country when almost all the citizens cast a blank vote giving none of the parties a clear majority. The president suspects a conspiracy. A bomb goes off (terrorists) Interrogations begins, the methods of which aren't clearly understood by the citizens. Some of those interrogated are never seen again and the lie detector seems to be lying. Soon the people take to the streets the government moves out of the city. Just when I thought I was enjoying the novel something eerie happened - Benazir Bhutto was assassinated , while election fever gripped the this part of the world, suddenly I felt the chaos of the pages erupt in real life. Was it reality inspiring a book or a book prompting reality. I have no answers. Last year, while reading Saramago something equally eerie and diabolic had occured which I have recorded here. Saramago, with his punctuation less stories had started giving me the creeps....
Soon New Year came and brushing off Saramago and Bhutto as a coincidence I continued my journey though the wilderness of Saramago's narrative. A few days into into losing and finding my way I realised that those who had marked their ballot papers were being asked to leave the province to a safer haven, but this plan backfires as no proper arrangements have been for their evacaution. Minsters resign. Soon somebody reminds the PM that years ago the country had suffered a bout of blindness. Though everyone had gone blind, there was one woman who had retained her sight. She could be the one behind this current crisis of blank ballots. I have no clue of what happens after this for I have given up. After this point of the book I felt myself going down into a dark abyss and I was scared. I tried reading again getting my concentration together. But honestly, I was frightened of finishing this book. I didn't want to know what lay ahead.

Jose Saramago has been lauded as one of the greatest writers of our times. He is 84, Portuguese and was awared the Nobel prize for literature in 1998. I now I see why. He is a powerful storyteller. His stories don't entertain but make one open their eyes to the reality of this world; the harsh, cruel reality that is the truth behind what the common man has been made to believe. And that can be frightening.

Yes, Hillary is a human being

2008-01-15T18:17:00.001-08:00

I am really not into politics. But the close victory of Hillary over Obama at New Hampshire, had me at the edge of the sofa chewing my nails out. I have been watching CNN off and on since the polls began. Listening to a whole lot of political debates aired on tv. Therefore, I know that Mitt Romney is an irreconcilable conservative who would make sure that his entire family takes a prep course pn how-to-be-the-first-family, that Obama's speeches are similar to Richard Nixon's in 1960 and that Hillary Clinton is being over watched by feminists, misogynists, and church-goers alike. Everybody is just waiting when she would trip on her shoelaces and fall on her nose. And she did at New Hampshire - they say her tears 'humanized' here. I wish someone would make Mitt Romney cry and then going by how he looks -humanized, womanized, or demonized - vote for him. (And then conclude that he was feeling very insecure about losing so the tears)
I, for one ,am proud to see a woman campaign for presidency. India had Indira Gandhi, England had Thatcher so why can't America have Hillary Clinton? Some say she has killed feminism because instead of walking out on a philandering husband, she uses his name (and the pity) to become senator and now, campaign for presidency. Somehow the world wants powerful women to be like angels, wearing something white, elevating themselves automatically in the air above others and blessing them with whatever they want. Well, the reality is that women are just human and they can be as manipulative as any man can be. So if you are accusing of Hillary of dirty politics then ... she is just a dirty politician and that's nothing to do with the fact that she is a woman.. Some say she is power hungry. But then is there any politician in the world, that too on a campaign trail, who is not power hungry?
I believe, there are also women from a younger age group who would rather vote for obama, 'coz he is so charming. They are the same group who find Hillary too agressive, out of place, and so out of the mould. The group which really supports Hillary is the older women, and thank God they are large in number. Hillary is said to have been approcahed by really old women, who didn't have the right to vote when they were young but would like to die seeing a woman in the white house. But she shoudn't be winning because she is a woman but because she seems to be having some policies in place for the American people, can represent America strongly in the international arena and seems to be knowing what she is doing and seems to have done her homework very very well about all the issues that she needs to address.
I think the only thing that stops women from going ahead is women themselves. They are just so tangled up in their own prejudices and misgivings about each other that they trip their sense of solidarity, almost always. Then there is this desire of each woman to see the other in the same mould as she is in. They just can't stand the diversity among themselves. the too agressive or the 'unrealistic' or the different ones are isolated. It is taken for granted that all women would like to talk about clothes, shoes and cooking. The ones who want to talk politics and sex are just not women enough. Not all women are the same. Each is an individual in their own right with a head of their own and don't you think there is something wrong if all the women want to talk about the same things?
I think that's what is happening to Hillary now. Everyone expects her to be woman and she is just as ambitious, insecure, competitive and...yes ...just as human -as a man

Balzac and coffee

2007-12-27T16:25:00.000-08:00

Read Balzac's take on coffee here

It's beginning to look like Christmas

2007-12-22T20:10:00.000-08:00

In the meadow we will build a snowman and pretend that he is Parson Brown. He'll say 'are you married?', we'll say 'no man, but you can do the job when you're in town...' Just one of the time old classic carols playing on the radio during the Christmas Season. Most of them make me want to sing along, reminding me of that rather adventurous time i had caroling in Delhi as a school girl. I happened to be part of carol group that went around houses in the parish. We didn't really have any means of transportation and walked miles and miles, from one christian house to another in South Delhi, spreading christmas cheer to every rich, poor, nuclear, joint, happy, sad family in the parish. One didn't mind walking the miles night after night we were so full of the christmas spirit. Our group consisted of north Indian, south Indian and a whole bunch of tribal christians from Bihar, who were really fun to be with. We would start around 7 in the evening and go on till 12. Once we reached a person's house, we would sing Jingle Bells on top of over voices, complete with drums and duffle and go on until the door opened, waking up the entire neighbourhood in the process. Most took it as a happy nuisance. Once inside we would sing Silent Night or O come all ye faithful, may be a Hindi song. If we thought there was space inside the house and the ambience was nice we would nudge each other and sing some of the tribal christian songs. They are still my personal favourites. They are neither in Hindi nor English. They are probably Santhali or Oraon, whatever the language. But these carols are really foot tapping and make you want to dance. So then to the beat of the mandar (huge drum hung around the neck) we would put our arms around each other's waist and do a little tribal dance to the rhythm of the tribal christmas carol. I guess that remains my best christmas memory to date. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

The Nutcracker

2007-12-13T14:45:00.000-08:00

Swirling frocks and lace ballet dresses. Yes it was time for The Nutcracker, one of the longest running ballets written by ETA Hoffman and music by Tchaikovsky. The Nutcracker is the story of little Clara, who receives a nutcracker as gift from her godfather Drosselmeyer. She and her brother Fritz fight over it, breaking it in the process. Her Godfather fixes it for her putting a spell in it. At night, as Clara sleeps by the Christmas tree, the nutcracker by her side, she dreams that she is a beautiful princess, attacked by an army of mice and rescued by her prince charming - The Nutcracker. The music, of course, is just beautiful so are the colours and the graceful dexterity of the ballet dancers. There are about four dances Arabic, Spanish, Chinese and Russian in the Nutcracker's kingdom of sweets, the little tin drum soldiers, then there are elfs and pixies and the clown family, all with children hiding in boxes which there parents push around, the queen of snowflakes. Great for children of all ages.:)

Namesake trivia

2007-12-04T16:09:00.000-08:00

Did you know that Mira Nair initially thought of casting Rani Mukehrji as Ashima and Abhishek Bachchan as Gogol or that the characters of Ashima and Ashoke are based on Jhumpa Lahiri's real parents. Check out some more Namesake trivia here .

In Snow queen's land

2007-12-02T14:57:00.000-08:00

My first snowfall. May be that's what the title of the post should be. But I think it would sound more like the title of a children's picture book. But then that's what I turned into yesterday when i looked out of the window and snowflakes started slowly falling. I put my had out to catch one and it just melted in a nano second on my palm. And slowly as the ground, the trees, the bushes turned white, I started feeling I was in Snow queen's land. I soon realised I was not the only one awestruck and surprised by the first snowfall of the season. Curtains were drawn back. blinds rolled up. Men and women came out, enjoying the snowfall. Some posing, taking pictures as the snow flakes came drifting down. Soon every imaginable leaf and blade of grass was white, the landscape reminding me once again of christmas greeting cards. I stepped outside only to be struck by the beauty of the white snow as it covered the roads, cars and tops of houses. Everything was pure white. I walked a few steps, only to elave footprints in the snow. Suddenly feeling exposed. Outside, on the opposite lane the branchless trees outside Microsoft glistened with snow, the lanes were full of it. For once I felt envious of those working inside. What a sight it would be as they look out of their glass windows now. There were many on the roads, capturing the landcape on their handycams. Kids made snowballs and threw them on each other, adults weren't far behind. Everyone seemed to be just SO happy. The snow just makes me look forward to christmas, perhaps a White Christmas

Of Namesake families and Pastries

2007-10-26T21:08:00.000-07:00

Your mails sound like Jhumpa Lahiri's 'Namesake'? said S. 'Yes' I said 'coz I realise some things for which you have to bribe officials to obtain back home are just given to you on a platter here. I am just awestruck by the facility of things here. But then I am no Ashima of 'The Namesake'. For despite all the praises that I sang of The Namesake here, somewhere deep down I know that there was something about Ashima (Tabu, in the movie) which was unsettling. And now I think i know exactly what it is. It is her passivity. Throughout the story, Ashima is like a plain sheet of paper, passive. She gets married, comes to the US, lives, procreates and experiences America through Gogol, her son. She grows like a wall. Once her husband dies, she decides to go back to India. But then why should Ashima be an active participant in the melting pot of America? Afterall it is Gogol who is The Namesake. The guy who is affected by America. Lahiri has pandered to the fantasy that America is for Indians in India, which in a nutshell is American house + Indian wife = Perfect life.

However, in this part of the world, things are different. And I don't just speak with my two month experience of my life here. There are n number of 'Namesake' families I see here. On the streets, in the malls, bespectacled men pushing prams and coy women following with another little one hanging on to their pallus or chunnis, especially so in the neighbouring town of Redmond, HQs of Microsoft. Some of these women run beauty parlours, volunteer in NGOs and schools, teach bharatanatyam, kathak, 'Indian culture' (whatever that encompasses) or do some baby sitting to make an extra dollar. Many of them work in the software factories, some in the real estate offices or insurance companies.

But it is not just these women who are breaking the 'Ashima' mould for me. It is Pasteries- A Novel of Desserts and Discoveries by Seattle-based Bharti Kirchner that is doing the rest of it. I really wouldn't have discovered this amazing piece of litrature if it wasn't for a kind new friend who issued it from the local library especially for me. Though I had my reservations when I started reading it (A bit like Chocolat, I thought), my heart soon warmed to its protagonist, Sunya Malhotra, the owner of Pasteries Cafe in downtown Seattle. Disciplined, she enters her bakery at 5 every morning and works with Pierre, her French chef to dole out not only the day's share of tarts, pies and pastries but also her speciality The Sunya Cake, the recipe to which she fiercely guards. Her cafe is popular. Right from the mayor to the neighbourhood weatherwatching old woman, order their cakes and desserts from Pastries Cafe. But Sunya has competetion from Cakes Plus a commericial, profit-centred enterprise. Independent and self made, the 29-year-old Sunya, holds out against all attempts made by some powerful ones to buy her 'failing' enterprise.

But fascinates me the most in this novel, set against the backdrop of 1999 Seattle WTO conference, full of pastries, tarts, pies, genoise, cinnamon and maple syrup is not Sunya's Japanese boyfriend who leaves his job at a fashion store to become a volunteer against globalisation, nor Sunya's growing interest in the mysterious Andrew, a film director, but Sunya's mother Dee. Dee WAS like Ashima. She grew up in Kolkata. Taught Geography and married Prabhu Malhotra, who had just won a scholarship at the University of Washington Seattle to pursue a doctorate in Chemistry. His parents don't want him to go to a far off land alone. As Prabhu sits in Dee's home explaining Buddhism, their eyes meet

Dee knows that this is the opportunity to get the freedom that she longed for. She gets married and accompanies Prabhu. Life goes on smoothly until the day of Sunya's birth. Prabhu names his daughter Sunya or 'nothingness' according the Buddhist philosophy and leaves his family forever the next day. At first Dee panics and lives a few days in penury. Then one day when the doughnut seller across the street closes down his shop, she decides to take it over from him. For the one thing that had caught on her tastebuds in America were doughnuts. Soon Dee becomes an expert doughnut maker. She sells off her jewellery and tears of her silk saris to make bright curtains for her doughnut shop. Little Sunya grows up in the doughnut shop, breathing the comforting smell of baked dough and cleaning the floor in her free time. Dee and Sunya continue living their life, despite the nasty jibes that they are subjected to by the local Indian community. The doughnut shop closes down after a few decades as Dee is not able to handle the competition from the big food chains. Sunya, however, learns from her mother's independent spirit and her mistakes and sticks it out. Kirchner's novel is a perfectly baked cake. Soft, spongy, yet sturdy. Her storytelling is perfect and I love Sunya, who believes in standing by what she thinks is right, despite all odds.

The novel is so refreshing, considering that one usually encounters women, like Ashima, in Indian- American novels, who are only concerned about the preservation of Indian culture and traditions in a foreign land, trapped in a culture, they inherited from their parents or worse selling the healing powers of Indian spices to gullible Indians and Americans (The Mistress of Spices). What happens if in this foreign land, our timeless Indian values (or spices) don't sustain or support us? The answer lies in Pastries...

Life in a bubble

2007-10-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

Television is a world that you enter into at the press of a button. And there you encounter everything. People, places, faces, expressions, family, friends, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, neighbours, men, women, children, old young, monstors, ghosts, phantoms, traditional, conservative, boring, interesting, jocular, staid everybody you’ve ever met, you’ll ever meet, you loved meeting or would love meeting or hate meeting, look forward to meeting or remember meeting or dream of meeting or just cringe at the thought. And stimuli; love, hate, distress, sorrow, anger, sensuousness, wonder, doubt, surprise, shock, fear, terror, horror, strength, weakness. Towards each the heart is slowly becoming immune to when encountered in the real world. We want just a little bit of it. A little bit of love, a pinch of hate, a table spoon of remorse, some finely chopped sensuality, two cups of wonder and teaspoon of fear to make the perfect curry of life. To get the perfect picture. And suppose we reduce the tablespoon of remorse and increase the quantity of wonder. Would it be any different? I think so. And so I guess each one of us can make their own dish of life. Depending upon the ingredients they want to use. Just like the producers on HBO. And label them, happy, sad, romantic, terror, erotic or just kinky. Yeah that’s what life is HBO.
And what is the destiny of the couch potato? To perish before this incredible mirror of life, the television or capture some of these emotions, long dead within the self and rekindle itself. Is it possible for the half-sleepy heart of the couch potato to reconnect its emotional wires to the reality that is life? Or are has HBO patented everything that we called emotions?

Why I don't Orkut

2007-10-14T12:46:00.000-07:00

Everybody wants to connect, I believe in bonding. May be that's the reason one fine day, just like that, out of the blue, I deleted my profile from orkut. I thought enough was enough. Strangers wanted to be friends with me. Poeple who's faces I never remembered wanted to be best friends, suddenly. Individuals who wouldn't maintain basic courtesy upon meeting face to face want to get personal on Orkut. I don't like the way Orkut and many other networking sites make the nature of these relationships ambiguous. Someone who wouldn't reply to even a courtesy email wants to be your friend on some social networking site. Are you friend or no friend?

It became increasingly difficult after the Big M happened to me. There was someone who said I change my profile and mention the M status. Why? What's orkut? Some public record keeper? said my somesaulting mind. Then there were all the sundry questions about how the M status is working, making me feel so exposed to the world. Somehow suddenly I am not the happy-go-lucky youngster on orkut making friends, but someone with an M status and I got to answer for that. I guess the flip side of informing everyone that I am getting hitched. Suddenly more than the M status, it was the querying on Orkut that seemed overbearing. Aaaaaargh too much for my fragile head.

Ok I agree, you get to meet your old school mates on Orkut. and I too like everybody met quite a few. But apart from an orkut membership, nothing much seems to be common. They got their lives and if in case there is a school meet they would rather hang around with there old school friends than share a few real time moments with their Orkut classmates. Then there are the one's who stay far away, in other countries or cities. I think dropping a line through the email would be enough (something which no one seems to be doing these days) . And the one's you care truely, deeply for you will keep in touch, orkut or not. I might sound a bit anti-social. But come to think of it I would rather keep-in-touch than network.

Joys of riding the bus

2007-10-13T20:52:00.000-07:00

Almost lost my way today when I missed my usual stop and the bus drove on. Anyway got down at the next one and just when I thought that I was truely lost I realised the road leads directly home. Thanks to my wanderlusty ways I had already gone on one of my long exploratory walks on this route. Well, that's not the end of my adventures in this side of America, where the sun shines when it wants to. Having been a regular on the Blue Lines of Delhi I have quickly taken to the clean, disciplined and friendly buses of America. I am told even the 'skeletal' bus system that the state of Washington has cannot be found in any other State. In States like California there are nothing but cars. Too bad, for the freewheeler like me who wants to simply hop into the bus and forget about the whole world till I reach my destination. May be that's why I've been shirking away from driving, 'coz driving means responsibility, concentrating on the road, the vehicles, left, right centre and in the middle of it all u got to change gears. Too much of work for a scatter brained like me. That's why despite all the trouble I take the bus. Some of my profoundest thoughts come when I am in a bus. Even when I learn to drive a car and take to driving may be I'll catch the bus on weekends , to lose my way and find it again.

Americana

2007-09-29T20:30:00.000-07:00

It's a month since I arrived and there are a lots of new things that I have found out about this place. Here's a list

a) 'ok-dokey' something that everyone from the salesgirls to the bank manager says
b) Guatamalan bananas
c) Clean buses with smiling drivers, who wear clean shirts and trousers
d)Buses that run on time
e) We know they are on time 'coz their timings and fares are displayed at the bus stops.
f) Separate lanes for cars with two passengers
g) 'Hi, how are you doing today?' something that your brand new neighbour to the plumber will ask you.
f) vast, fancy stores where you get everything from notebooks, ribbons etc to milk
h) Back-to-school, is a season like Fall
i) Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran

'Falling' in love

2007-09-24T19:50:00.000-07:00

It's something that I saw in picture post cards or greeting cards. Trees in their fall best, a sign that winter is at our doorsteps. It's an image that belongs to a distant land. But Fall is something that I am slowly waking up to in America. And it is exactly like the greeting cards. You go for a a walk down some neighbourhood road where once in while a car whizzes past. On the sidewalks you find them: the red leaves of fall. You look up at the tree and you see that all the leaves have turned red. You walk along and you bump into another tree a portion of which is red sticking out like an injured thumb. No adobe photoshop; this is nature at its best.

"It is called Fall because the leaves fall during this time," explains hubby. And to think that all this while, back home we used the term without ever knowing what it meant. Fall fashion, fall season, fall session and the dozen other 'falls' we heard and used the word without ever knowing what it meant. Well, in this knowledge we no longer fall but rise:)

A new leaf

2007-09-23T14:09:00.000-07:00

It was wierd going through it again. But it was exciting. Making a new blog. Jhansi Ki Rani has now become The Distant I. Technical problems among many other things was one reason the distant I was made. In a new phase, in a new place with a new face. So watch this space.