What the Blue Goblin Says

For Shiva.

2007-07-26T05:38:00.000-07:00

Shiva...

got back from travelling to be met by the news. Ketaki had told mum, mum didn’t want to tell me over the phone. She said, "your classmate, Shivani". It didn't make sense. It doesn't make sense. You're still alive to me, you posted in my scrap book a week ago, you're interning in Cali, and about 8 months ago we just started talking again, since school. Orkut isn't helping, dude. Everyone is there, every other minute a friend or relative of yours is typing their disbelief, their sorrow, their love for you, but somehow the fact you won't reply to them or me is making this a whole lot harder.

When you first messaged me on Orkut, I had to check your page a few times just to make sure it really was you. Not because you have changed much: still the same powerful academic drive, still the same competitive spirit. Your profile said you were studying at CMU; that made perfect sense—you were always the good student. And back then, I was always the clown. You used to hate my guts back then, and it was no surprise. We were as different as could be: you were good in math. I could only count uptil 20, and that’s if I had no shoes on. You were serious in class and took notes, I would distract krithika and write notes to the others in the back benches. You got the grades. I got the laughs. And you couldn’t understand why I existed and I was amused whenever you got mad because of something I said or did. We made fun of each other, and calmly existed in relative peace through school.

Except for the day we heard anjana ratinam had passed away. We were all in shock, dude. I saw you cry and suddenly you were as vulnerable as I felt, and there were no pranks at that moment, or any need to get the best grade. I didn’t think I would be mourning you today, Shiva. Three paragraphs on and I still haven’t made sense of this.

You hated me calling you Shiva. Heh. Back then I gave nicknames to people with absolutely no grace. You didn’t mind Ms. N calling you froggy though, because you would always be the first one jumping up from her chair to give an answer.

And then, a few years later, you message me on Orkut. Full of fun, ready to refer to all those times in school, ready to laugh at them and forgive me and become friends. And somehow I knew you weren’t connecting just for the sake of it.

30/11/06. "hmm friends are easy to forget sometimes.wat about hard core enemies ? ..need i ask "remeber me?"

Heh. Dang. You were all grown up, but still as ballsy as ever. We stayed in touch, not everyday but enough for both of us to know that we had out-grown our classroom wars, and would probably get along just fine now.

The last message you sent me was on 12th july. And I had quit smoking till I heard the news today that you wouldn’t be scrapping me anymore.

This is not me wallowing, dude. Your close friends, your family and loved ones, I can’t measure my grief against theirs. But when mum told me, it was like 8th standard all over again. Death makes even less sense now, especially for a person as alive as you, as filled with energy as you.

This is a note of memory, because I always did, and always will remember you, my old nemesis and friend. And a note of thanks, because you had the grace to come looking for me, and retie an old knot that most people would’ve ignored, saying that that was school anyway and we were all children then.

We were. And still are, in a way. They say only the good die young. I will miss you, and your smiling face on my page. Rest in Peace, Shiva. You weren’t just the better student. You were also the better human being, and all our lives are going to be emptier because you aren’t with us anymore, my dearest enemy. You will be remembered for your humor, your fierce loyalty to those you loved, your hard-working nature and for all else that made you the one and only Shivani K.

May God bless you and your family. And may he give me a damn good reason why you had to go so soon.

In memoriam-- of innocence, loneliness and loss.

2007-04-18T04:57:00.000-07:00

I could turn this into a creative writing piece, and write a psychological thriller about a young man and the choices he made. I could even pull a Capote, and turn this piece into my magnum opus, a fixture on some best-seller list because it so chillingly captured real events that occurred in my own lifetime.

Over the past two days, in fact.

There are two problems with doing this. The first? Bad taste.

The second is a problem that all English/Creative Writing students face, which is being assaulted by the need to write or express a thought, an assault worse than an itch in the middle of your back, because it doesn't go away, and leaves you with no peace to think about form, and narrative style. I’m sorry, Truman. I failed you. There’s no best seller here, no carefully crafted piece of new reportage. I'm just a student who's realized she can't complete her thesis unless she puts this itch down in words.

The past two days have been filled with events and changes. A country’s in upheaval. 33 families have lost their reason to leave their porch light on. A university is left feeling ravaged. A media circus is in full swing, and someone just yelled “send in the clowns”. Facebook is suddenly very popular. Several students all around the U.S.A realized they had always disliked Koreans. An entire Asian country felt it needed to tell America that the shootings were not part of some terrorist conspiracy. A section of this country is waiting to see what Oprah will say about this. A section of this country is waiting to see what God will say about this. A certain political lobby group is trying to find the best and most genial way of keeping the hunting season open, as the pope from his ivory tower decried the propogation of violence in this, the land of the free.

And early this morning, a newspaper published an article saying that the VA killings are “widely seen as reflecting a violent society”

The massacre at Virginia Tech was very violent, so violent that it has made me numb in ways that 9/11 never did. Maybe it was because Ground Zero was a direct result of socio-politic-economic strife. Maybe because the victims at V. Tech were chosen randomly. Maybe because many of them would’ve graduated around the same time I will. Maybe because they were taken when they were at their most beautiful, on the threshold of adult life. Maybe because I can still visit their profiles on various social networks online, like Orkut and Facebook, and can see how their life was stopped so suddenly, how they had no foreknowledge, no time to make phone calls or close email accounts. Maybe because television networks are scrambling for any video clips or interviews that can and will boost the number of hits on their web pages. Maybe because of the Indians who were also killed, who were in this country with the sole purpose of academic pursuit, whose families are left grieving back home in my country, trying to make sense of a senseless tragedy.

Mostly though, it's because I could just as easily have been a student at V Tech as I am one at Roger Williams. Maybe because anyone of those victims could’ve been me, if it hadn’t been for the simple fact of place and time, and chance.

But here’s what’s got me awake in the middle of the night, stirring coffee. These 33 human beings weren’t near any war front. They weren’t even part of some huge capitalist venture that would’ve made them symbolic targets.

They were just kids. And they were shot for reasons far more subtle than Fox or CNN will ever discover.

Sure, America today has a violent society. Which country doesn’t? Every country, I repeat, every country has its own share of available firearms. The only factor that varies is whether a person can procure a gun legally, or illegally. Every country has a mob. Every country has natural disasters, street violence, drug abuse, and exploitive news networks. Every country’s film industry has movies that show people getting shot, cars being blown up, women being chased.

War happens all over. Sh*t happens, all over. People get shot, mugged, killed, raped, murdered, run over, knifed and drowned all the time. What makes the actions of Cho Seung-Hui different is motive. Or the lack thereof.

You could say the kid was crazy. You could say he was psychotic, had always been that way, that his writing holds signs of a mind on the edge of some act of violence, and you would be right.

You would also be right if you said he was lonely. Alone, even. Which is to say, without friends. Without a social group to help him cope with a world that has most of us thinking that we wouldn't get by if it wasn't for our drugs, caffeine and otherwise.

No. I’m not justifying his actions. The shootings resulted in the worst kind of deaths— random loss of young life, individuals who were filled with the potential of making this world a better place. I am horrified by what happened. I cannot continue work on my thesis, because of what happened.

Cho was a time bomb waiting to explode. An anomaly, an uncomfortable presence on campus, in the dorm, and in his classes. He wrote weird. He looked weird. He sounded weird. Essentially, he was the freak that everyone was polite to, and most everyone avoided. In early interviews, most students at V Tech had no clue who Cho was.

V Tech is a much larger campus than Roger Williams University. RWU is what you would call a close community, classes that are kept as small and tight knit as is possible to ensure all kids get maximum attention from their professors. My classes, be they creative writing, political science or English, are usually not much bigger than 15, once or twice having gone up to about thirty.

Yet, on may 19^th, I will graduate as quietly and anonymously as Cho would’ve, if he hadn’t gone over the edge, if he perhaps, had remembered to take his medication. And that's what's bothering me.

Sure, I got friends. I'm even on Facebook. But I survive on campus relatively on my own. Just me and my iPod, on my way to class, just like you do often, because sometimes the crowd gets too much. Sometimes the fact you don’t belong to a group, because you aren’t a specific type leaves you in a very solitary place.

Cho had problems. But he probably wouldn’t have shot anyone—maybe—if he had had more people to talk to.

That’s not to say that every loner on every campus is a threat to the rest of the learning community.

That means that the sickness in American society is not because of its violence-- the world in general, as Hobbes declared, tends to be a violent, anarchic mess-- but because of the isolated lives people in this country, whether residents or immigrants, end up living. You only speak to your group. You only live within your group. Which is perfectly understandable, because as humans we are programmed to be social animals. But the problem with groups is, there will always be the fringe. The outsiders.

The people who are the only one of their kind in certain space, either based on their mental make up or their physical appearance.

Wait, maybe I could write a story.

This story could be about a young kid who moves to the U.S when he was 8, who was always a bit of a loner because his folks worked hard all the time, and were first generation immigrants, which meant they didn’t speak American well, and that his dad didn’t have a favorite hockey team. The kid was the only Asian around, and no girl wanted to date him because he wasn’t blond.

No wait— scratch that, too easy.

The kid was Asian and lived in a neighborhood filled with primarily Asian families, but the desperation of the need to find your own kind in this country, to stay together because the outside world is scary, was too much for him. Maybe he was tired of being told to jump into stereotypes: to take Kung Fu classes, to use chop sticks, to love computer programming. So maybe, just maybe, he drew further away into himself. He heard Pearl Jam’s Jeremy and thought, yeah that kid in that song, that kid was finally free, finally happy after what he did.

No wait, Jesus, that's too predictable.

How about this—maybe he grew up, and had posters of Martin Luther King Jr. on his wall, and listened to Nirvana; he was also vegetarian. And maybe the first time he tried to talk about Martin Luther King or Cobain, somebody laughed at him. Or stared at him. Or said hey, we didn’t know your people knew about the Civil Rights Movement.

Maybe this kid spoke broken English, because his parents did as well. Or maybe, he spoke flawlessly, and read Shakespeare and Baraka, but one day a girl with earnest eyes told him that she would never believe he was Chinese/Indian/Korean/Nepali/Pakistani/Martian because he spoke such good English.

And maybe he got angry. And maybe he got lonely. And maybe, one grey early spring day, he went into a gun store with money and thought he found his path.

Life isn't Oprah, though I wish it was, and I am not looking for a group hug. But maybe if Cho had had more people to talk to, he wouldn’t have ended things the way he did. One of his professors, when interviewed, said that he had always scared her a little. That there was something not quite right about him.

There’s something not quite right with all of us.

Blessed are those with cliques and similar hair color: they will always have company to watch 'Lost' with. Blessed are those into sports, for they can always throw, punch or run their anger a way.

Blessed are the drugged, for whether on weed or Adderall, their quiet desperation brings them together. Blessed are the smokers, the tokers, the Goths, the preps, the blonds, the actors, the poets, the brunettes, the nerds, the sk8ers, the pea-coat wearers with their eternal promise of coffee cup poetry, the mists of the joy that comes from being part of an elite intelligentsia fogging up their spectacles.

Blessed are those that love Tolkien, for they shall inherit Middle Earth. Blessed are those that see the point of this paragraph, for they, hopefully, are asking questions. Questions like, what about those with no group identifiers? What about those who because of situation or self are left alone in the fishbowl of college life?

Cho Seung-Hui obviously needed help. He didn’t just need communication, he also needed professional care. In an interview with CNN, his former room mates came across as young men who reacted to their silent room mate in much the same way we all would've: they were courteous, they tried to involve him in group activities and when they realized he and the group weren't comfortable with that dynamic, they tried to leave him in peace. They also grew uncomfortable when they encountered examples of his neurotic behavior, and tried to intervene to the best of their ability.

In a way, they did more than the average American student would've. What more can be done with a troubled class mate?

In a separate interview with CNN, Criminology professor Jack Levin talks about the effects of social isolation:

Now, of course, there are millions of people in that situation. They don't kill anybody. But it seems to me that, when you put that together, the social isolation, with the fact that I believe he suffered some catastrophic losses -- I'm not sure whether it was the loss of a girlfriend, the loss of money, the loss of his position on the campus, or maybe all of those things.

But suffering this kind of loss as a precipitant probably pushed him over the edge. You're talking about an extremely depressed person.

Here is an extract of the interview with Levin. The full transcript is available here.

ZAHN: ... Let's come back to the issue of his writing... If you were to have seen this, his work from a playwriting class where he wrote, "I want to kill him, Jane"... would that have alarmed you?

LEVIN: Well, I'm sure it would have alarmed me. However, I have to put this in perspective, after having studied these mass killers for more than 25 years. And I can tell you that they usually do not issue a threat beforehand... And, you know, keep in mind that we could be talking about novelist Stephen King, who also fantasized about violence, and wrote prolifically about it... But the question is, then, what do you do with that information? You know, in high schools and middle schools around the country, under zero-tolerance policies, if a youngster wrote about violence in an essay, could be expelled.

Now, in most cases, these youngsters who wrote about violence did so because they could never actually express it with the -- through the barrel of a gun. Usually, this is a way of dealing with violence , in a safe, pretty innocuous way.

So, you know, I have to tell you something, Paula. I -- of course, I wish I could tell people that these warning signs could protect us in the future... The truth about this is... We should be caring about people who are troubled long before they become troublesome. We should reach out to people... not to punish them, but to give them our concern, our caring.

“We should reach out to people”

Professor, I couldn’t agree with you more. Whether it's letting a person know they are not the only one, or becoming aware of a troubled individual, and reacting pro actively to him or her, talking can only help on campuses in America, and around the world.

In the CNN interview with Cho’s former room mates, it came up that he would listen to a certain song by Collective Soul on repeat, and this was it:

Give me a word
Give me a sign
Show me where to look
Tell what will I find ( will I find )
Lay me on the ground
Fly me in the sky
Show me where to look
Tell me what will I find ( will I find )

Oh, heaven let your light shine down (x4)

Love is in the water
Love is in the air
Show me where to go
Tell me will love be there ( love be there )
Teach me how to speak
Teach me how to share
Teach me where to go
Tell me will love be there ( love be there )

Oh, heaven let your light shine down (x4)

I’m going to let it shine (x2)
Heavens little light gonna shine on me
Yea yea heavens little light gonna shine on me
Its gonna shine, shine on me
Its gonna shine, come on in shine

There's a lot of hurt right now. Lots of rage. Lots of lives that should still be living right now. But why the VA massacre will always be different from any other previous act of violence on campuses is that it was carried out by a young man who leaped off the edge, who never had any sort of hand around to help pull him back.

That thesis is still going to be hard to work on today. I can only add my bit to the prayers being murmured and cried over by parents, best friends, lovers and teachers.

Dear god, please be there.

Take care of the group that came to you on April 16th. Soothe them,

and keep them safe up there till they are reunited with their families.

Show us our own path to love, and light.

Keep us from harming and hating each other,

Keep us from being alone. Keep the Hokie flame burning bright.

Amen. Whoever's up there, please, Amen.

After a Hiatus

2006-11-29T15:02:00.000-08:00

[FYI that line came from the subject header of an email I received from a one time lover. I remember staring at the word 'hiatus' and thinking what a beautiful name it was for a flower, delicate and white-edged, soft and coloured with tinges of blue, purple. I remember thinking that like an orchid it would grow on dead plant life, wrapping itself around a rotting branch. Hiatus. Noun. I picked a hiatus from the riverside, he took her a bouquet of hiatus, et al]

Crunch time.

Forget all that has happened since I last blogged.

Oh and believe me, a lot has.

Crunch time.

I walk around grinding my teeth and counting anxiety attacks these days because I have no answer to the one question that will not go away.

Two years in America. They were meant to be an extended holiday, a decoration on the resume, a free ride.

It has been that. And without asking my permission, it has turned into something more.

I like this mud. I like the cold hardness of this new england ground. I like fall, the fact that every tree looks like its part of a great sacrificial fire to announce the death of the season. I like being alone here, having no face that looks like mine. I like the rocks, ice water, shellfish, sturdy boots that make up the everyday. I like the lack of a mob.
And now I can't leave.

And attempting to stay on beyond the stated finish line is driving me insane.

Truly, I am losing it. I dont sleep right. I dont eat right. I find it harder quitting smoking for good.

What do I do, O fair, brave and lone reader?
What do I, dilettante of the first order [yes it was spell checked]
deserve in the way of extended stays, and second chances?
How do I convince these americans that I am worthy of their grad school?
Am I worthy?
What will happen if I don't make it?

This fear is the most potent drug I have ever used. Or abused. It makes me see visions of natural disasters [last night I dreamt of a dam bursting] and feel the kind of sadness that belongs to old bag ladies singing to themselves in the NY greyhound station.

I weep like I've lost my mind. I listen to every song, choked up and tissue-filled. It's pathetic.

I have ignored laundry, physicals, haircuts, friends, blogging.

I want serenity. I want the ability to feel no fear.
I want out.
And there is no out. India is not an option, not now.
A happy-go-lucky, creative writing major with no actual work experience who's only training has been in being a wasafiri [google it]and writing critical annotations has no place in the good ol' home on the range.

I need a miracle. An act of god. Or faith.
Maybe a prayer.
Or maybe, a word from you. Whoever and whatever you are.

Any ideas?

Holy Mother F-

2006-06-06T20:22:00.000-07:00

Right. Hadn't realized it's been this long since I've posted.

Hm.

I guess life does have a way of.... yeah, yeah all that shyte.

Great day for making a comeback, then. Eventhough the catholic church declared that it was 2002, not 2006 that was the actual year of the supposed horned meanie. Eventhough they made use of a calender date as a marketing strategy for that ridiculous re-intro of Damien into pop culture (around the east coast, this marketing strategy involved large black billboards with "06.06.06" on it)

Eventhough nothing really terrible happened today, to my knowledge, other than the usual bouquet of murders, suicides, shoe sales and whale killings.

Though, wait-- I did miss a bus. The dogs have been howling outside all day. Ah, and two lamp-posts went on when I walked under 'em (a tad positive, the latter. No? But I digress)

But in toto, I'm happy.

Will elucidate on the latter in the posts to come.

Happy Armageddon, everyone.

Anniversary Blues

2006-05-13T12:55:00.000-07:00

So it's been a year to the day.

May 13th. It was raining in portland when I landed. It's raining here in rhode island today. Grey-black-blue skies like there's some pissed off dragon-weather god outside on the bay.

I could talk about all the good things. I could talk about all the not so good things.

But that would be giving into to bloggish temptations. Instead, will mention, that a decade and more after I first heard the song, and saw the video, I was able to hear and see both again today. Much thanks to my fellow cow in a cherry red bathing suit for finding the audio file for me :)

Anyone remember Erasure?

;)

There was this b-grade anime look to the video for 'Always'. For some bizarre reason, found enough reason to be fascinated with it as a child.

Happy Anniversary, dear me.

"Give Me Your Poems"

2006-04-22T16:26:00.000-07:00

Three days ago, Lyubomir Levchev came to read on campus, in celebration of National Poetry Month here in yankville. Lyubomir is a Bulgarian poet, and this was his self introduction:

hello my friends, of famous rogers williams college.
I am lyubomir.
I dont speak english.
But after 2nd bottle, I speak english.

Sitting there with notepad and cranberry juice, I couldn't take my eyes off the old man: he has one of those faces that time's used like it would an old tree trunk-- wrinkles, warts and mottled skin like lichen and moss and owls nest in the top branches. He has the most beautiful smile, and carries his cane instead of leaning on it. He came with his lovely wife, his translator, and his publisher and friend, Alexander Taylor, one of the directors of Curbstone Press, and a poet in his own right.

Something about Lyubomir caught my imagination: I have never scribbled down so much verse thanks to the presence of one old man, ever before. His publisher read Levchev's work in english, and then the poet would read the same in Bulgarian:

He tells his translator,
no stopping.
Refuses to read, like a 5 year old
at his eye doctor's clinic,
and holds his cane
while listening,
like a flower.

Levchev wanted Taylor to keep reading, while he sat there and listened, intently.

What a face!
If only this pen was a brush,
and I, Rembrandt.

He could've sat in a boat
on a wharf
in a ditch,
reading poetry with a pipe.

He smiles.
What a face!
I mourn my lack.

Lyubomir only picks up his cane
and points to the poetry growing
outside the window.

I kept scribbling things like this throughtout the two-hour reading. Levchev has written some fine poetry. The official blurb on him, according to the PEN American Centre is as follows:

Lyubomir Levchev was born on April 27, 1935, in Troyan, Bulgaria. He has published over 20 volumes of poetry and two novels. Over 60 of his books have been published in 33 countries. He has been awarded the Gold Medal for Poetry of the French Academy and the title Knight of Poetry, the Grand Prize of the Alexander Pushkin Institute and the Sorbonne, and the World Award of Mystic Poetry Fernando Rielo. Levchev is the founder and editor of the international literary magazine Orpheus.

Taylor, while introducing Levchev, said that the President of Bulgaria visited him, and that he was the lion of Bulgarian poetry. Hearing this-- albeit translated-- Levchev let loose a loud belly laugh, rocking back and forth in his chair in his merriment. His translator then said to us, "he says, 'very well if you say so'". Little things like this kept the audience charmed throughout the reading.

The first poem that Taylor read, was called 'Lullaby', and is translated from the Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev:

Lullaby
by Lyubomir Levchev

The boy was standing at the exit
of the new gas-station
like a deadlock,
like a gas pump,
like an air hose.
I braked suddenly to pick him up.
And only then did I notice
what an evil appearance he had.
I asked him:
“Which way?”
“To Plovdiv,” the hitch-hiker grumbled.
“Eh!” I joked bluntly like an intellectual.
“Such a young boy
to such an old city!”
“Oh, fuck this face of mine!
Could you, too, guess
that I still have no ID card?”
“But why are you cursing?”
“Because they won’t give me a job.
I can’t get started.
Do you know what it’s like
to be
and yet be unable to make a start?…”
I gave him a piece of chocolate.
He ate it up at once
and fell asleep.
I watched him, just in case,
in the rearview mirror,
rocking
in the loop of sleep.
His hair, long as a wig,
made him look like
a premature Robespierre.

And so we flew across eternity
like two centuries,
like two tenses:
past continuous
and a future that cannot begin.
Meanwhile the whirling wind hummed a lullaby:
Sleep, sleep, my boy.
It’s not your fault,
But our shameless falseness.
Sleep, but don’t trust Fukuyama.
History exists.
History is searching.
And soon
it will find you a job.
Oh, what a job!
They will remember you!

Levchev is part of the 'PEN World Voices: The New York festival of International Literature' which will be on from April 25-30. He will be there along with Chinua Achebe, Martin Amis, Upamanyu Chatterjee, Russel Banks, Margaret Atwood, Salman Rushdie and others.

I bought his latest book, "Ashes of Light", and went up to say hello to him. He looks at me, takes my wrist in his hand and greets me in the old-fashioned way:

To say hello,
he lifted the back of my hand
to his nose and moustache.
Reverent aged touch.

Automatic, I would've done
the deep namaskaram,
shishya arriving after a long journey.

He prevents action by
gripping my hand and growling
"give me your poems"

Breathless, I read him my scribblage.
I gasp out, "this has not happened before"
Yes, he smiles. This is how it starts.

That's exactly what he said: "Give me your poems". After reading a little of what I had written for him, he kissed my cheek and said, "thankyou". I cannot describe that moment well enough: everything came together, Levchev was an angel, the afternoon sun blazed in from the windows and my pen would not stop moving.

There was a conversation on poetics, as can be expected. Levchev spoke on translation, how he felt translation was a separate art by itself. He also said that if the translation sounds better than the original, then the translator has failed. Both Taylor and Levchev agreed that the literal meaning was not as important as the true sense and feeling of what the poet is trying to convey. Taylor quoted an anecdote that's attributed to some hispanic author whose name eludes me: a student once ran up to this great author with a translation and asked eagerly if it was right. The author in turn said yes, it is right, but the aroma has gone.

Levchev drew a self portrait in my copy of his book for me. He told me he has visited India twice, and loved the ashram at Pondicherry. I told him I had a Bulgarian friend I had met down in New Orleans. He clapped me on the shoulder, and smiling, rumbled in Bulgarian to his translator, who turned to me and said, "ah, now he says you are family".

Out of all the poems Taylor read, two poems by Levchev made a lasting impression. One was, called Tomorrow's Bread.

Tomorrow's Bread

Once I reproached my son
because he did not know
where to buy bread.
And now...
he is selling bread
in America.
in Washington.
In his daytime routine
he teaches at the university.
At night he writes poetry.
But on Saturdays and Sundays
he sells bread
on the corner of Nebraska and Connecticut.

...

In Sofia
the shades of old women
scour the dark.
Ransacking the rubbish bin they collect bread.
Pointing at one of them, a teacher
of history and Bulgarian language, they say:

"Don't jump to conclusions, take it easy!
She's not taking the bread for herself. She feeds
stray dogs
and birds."

And my words too are food for dogs
and birds.

Oh God!
Why am I alive?
Why do I wander alone in the Rhodopes?
Why do I gaze down abandoned wells?
Why do I dig into caves where people lie?
And pass the night in sacred places, renounced by you?

I am seeking the way
to the last magician's hideout,
he who forgot to die
but has not forgotten the secret of bread.
Not today's bread, which is for sale,
not yesterdays bread which has been dumped...
I must know the secret of tomorrow's bread.
The bread we kiss in awe.
The bread that takes our children by the hand
and leads them all back home.

You wrote of bread,
and your son who sells it
at the corner of Nebraska and Connecticut.

You wrote of Sofia,
old women finding bread in dust-bins,
and your son, and no bulgarian bread in sight.

I wept silently,
thinking of my professor, Cyrus Partovi,
who will not return to Iran
but misses his mother's
bread.

We took plenty of pictures, which the media person said she'd send over in a few days time. He stopped smoking two years ago, for health reasons. But he stole a smoke from his wife, as she, the translator, the publisher and I stood outside the library, waiting for their ride to come up. For Priyanka, he said. Mike and Alex and some of the others came out then, and we exchanged hugs, and cards, and email addresses.

"To PriYanka- poet
From LYubo

20.04.06"

He wrote it like that, Y's overlong. I asked him to come to India again. He crossed himself, with a little half-smile, half-nod.

I hope he makes it.

The Hit on Pramod Mahajan

2006-04-22T16:12:00.000-07:00

His brother took him out, the report said. There was a matter of a building contract.

Mahajan should've read the Godfather: Can't you just hear brother Praveen giving him "the look" and saying, quietly--

"Pramod, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the Family again. Ever".

tee hee.

Of Blood-lust, Religion and Education

2006-04-22T14:00:00.000-07:00

A few blog-posts ago, a dear friend and I walked away from each other due to conflicting views of the issue of islam and violence.

In a nutshell (and I had to go back to refer the slings and arrows we had aimed at each other) his argument was that "they" [I think he understood "they" to mean muslims, arabs & terrorists interchangeably] would do anything to prove their culture was superior to everyone else's, and would destroy anyone who disagreed with them.

In a nutshell, my argument was people's reactions are based on what they have experienced at the hands of others. I also said something about respect, and used other such maudlin words. In short, while trying to speak out against intolerance, we both ended up being intolerant. Sic transit.

Our argument escalated, and not just because of emotion taking over the wheel, pushing reason the back seat. It was because both of us had part of the truth, and both parts contradicted the other.

What made me bring that up was today's Washington Post article on the Afghan convert, written by Pamela Constable of the Washington Post Foreign Service.

Abdul Rahman was put on trial after it was discovered he had converted to christianity. According to the BBC, he has been a christian for sixteen years, and now faces the death penalty because of his conversion. His supporters and family have claimed he is not fit to stand trial; Mr. Rahman himself has claimed to have heard "voices" in his head. Karzai is caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place, with his international allies decrying the trial, and domestic clerics and institutions decrying the growing influence of the west interfering with sharia law.

NB: At this point, gentle reader, do remember that in Afghanistan's highly flagrant political climate, nothing can be seen as back and white. According to the Post article--

Some suggest that extremists may have provoked controversies such as the Rahman case to incite religious fervor or weaken the Karzai government. Islamic insurgents are trying to destabilize the country, and Muslim sensitivities have been aroused by the publication of anti-Islamic cartoons in Europe and the mistreatment of Muslim detainees in U.S. military custody.

What is interesting is that clerics who denounced the Taliban are now calling for the death of Rahman. They claim that the Taliban tortured the people and that this was dispicable. However, they also state that according to sharia law, whoever leaves the fold merits death.

Easy it is at this point to jump up and point fingers, to cry shame and decry hypocrisy.

Hold up. Take a breath.

The interpretation of theological doctrine will always be a delicate matter. Dr. Abu-Nabi Isstaif, visiting Fulbright scholar from the Damascus University to RWU, discussed this matter with me a few days ago. According to him, there is nothing in the Koran that points to death for the one who leaves islam, i.e. who is guilty of the crime of apostasy. This comes down to an interpretation of the text.

M. Cherif Bassiouni,professor and the president of the International Human Rights Law Institute at DePaul University College of Law, holds the same opinion. Writing in the Chicago Tribune, Bassiouni states

The principal category of crimes in Islam is called hudud. These crimes are referred to in the Koran and thus require prosecution. They are: adultery, theft, transgression (physical aggression), highway robbery, slander and alcohol consumption. Apostasy is included in this list by most scholars, but not by a few others. The Koran refers to it as follows: "And whoever of you turns [away] from his religion [Islam] and dies disbelieving, their works have failed in this world and the next [world]. Those are the inhabitants of fire: therein they shall dwell forever." Surat (chapter) al-Ma'eda, verse 35.This verse does not criminalize the turning away from Islam, nor does it establish a penalty.

In the same article, Bassiouni claims that apostasy has been criminalized in certain islamic countries based on "doctrinal constructs established in the 7th and 8th centuries". Afghanistan is a country with a muslim majority and a constitution that guarantees freedom of religion, as do the constitutions of other muslim-majority countries, such as Algeria, Egypt, Indonesia, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Malaysia, Morocco, Syria, Tunisia and Turkey. Countries that do consider Apostasy a crime punishable by death include Iran, Nigeria, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia and Sudan. Interestingly, Bassiouni claims that "there are no known cases in recent times in which someone charged with apostasy in these countries has been put to death".

There is no demographic available that documents religious deaths as dictated by interpretations of sharia, just as there were no available demographics that documented religious deaths as dictated by interpretations of the bible during the middle ages. But we will leave aside comparitive analysis for now and take Bassiouni at his word.

Google "islam-convert-death" and a multitude of websites, faithfully trailing a .org, will descend upon you. And depending on the affiliation of these websites, you will get quotes from separate parts of the Koran that justify either death or leniency regarding apostasy.

I asked Dr. Isstaif about this discrepancy in islam: afterall, there is meant to be one 'ummah', one people, one god, one religion. Then why these versions of "the truth", this pendulum-course between extremism and the middle path?

Isstaif claimed it was all due to education. As a scholar of arabic, with a degree from Oxford, he claims that he knows the Koran as well, or better than, any Syrian arab. He also claimed that the Koran was written in arabic, and the nuances of the word is often lost in translation. The good doctor said that a lack of education, and a lack of a knowledgable grasp of arabic often left certain parts of the world with a very literal interpretation, or even a misreading, of the text. Isstaif thinks this is unfortunate.

Isstaif agreed, by the way, that an apostate was certainly put out of the fold. However, by no means is the death penalty a valid judgement, he says.

I asked Dr. Isstaif, what then is the way to reduce these misinterpretations, to let people know what the Koran actually says?

Education, he says. Teach them to read on their own, so these people in south asia and east asia can read the truth for themselves, and then choose whether they want violence or dialogue.

It's all very well for Dr. Isstaif. He isn't in Afghanistan right now. And it's not as simple as spreading democracy.

According to the Post's article:

Members of the clergy, traditionally the most influential segment of this tribal, largely illiterate society, tend to add a major caveat. The Western world, they say, has no right to interfere in Afghanistan's religious affairs, and outsiders should not confuse Afghan desires for political freedom with a shift to permissive views on personal behavior.

"We have no enmity with the West, but if the West wants us to live in democracy, it must let us make our own decisions," said Enayatullah Balegh, imam of the large Pul-I-Khishti mosque. "Islam is everything to us. It is more powerful than our constitution. We appreciate honest help, but we ask that you not interfere, or else we will have no choice but to become suicide bombers."

In public, few Afghans are willing to question the authority of the clergy or the inviolability of Islamic law. But some, including college students, journalists, human rights advocates and government officials, say they support a more moderate interpretation of their religion.

As a political science student, I can tell you that extremist parties in Pakistan have often influenced violence in Afghanistan, a border issue that has been a bone of contention between Karzai and Musharraf.

As a political science student, I can also tell you that like the argument babs and I had, the imam's words, quoted above, also hold a grain of truth. Historically, no country has been able to balance the twin jurisdiction of religion and state. Italy in the 13th century, Afghanistan today, Pakistan on and off, and Iran in the 1970's and 80's stand as proof of this.

His ultimatum could have been predicted. I do not seek to justify his claim-- If the man lived in the Gaza strip, or what used to be Jaffa and is now called Tel Aviv, if the man was palestinian and has been deprived of flag, country and passport illegally for the past 40 years, and was decrying the actions of the israeli government, I would understand his claim, fully. For an imam of a historically important mosque in the older part of Kabul, and the centre of protest against the US invasion of Afghanistan, it is requires to look under the first layer of the onion to understand his ultimatum.

The fact is that a literal, orthodox interpretation of islam does not allow for western democracy as it is known in the world today. The fact is, moderate muslims who claim that a bridge can be built, are discounting the fact that no time was given in Iraq or Afghanistan for any such bridge to be built. Demagogues took the opportunity the US invasions provided to incite violence against the people and form of government that was opposing what these orthodox clerics believe to be their way of life.

Dr. Isstaif lives and breathes his religion, and takes the time to pray five times a day. He claims that democracy cannot be implanted as is, without making any allowance for cultural and historical differences between western and islamic countries.

Karzai is fully aware of this, and to balance the effects of the chief cleric of the supreme court, who is as orthodox as they can get, the president has elected younger, more moderate judges to the court.

One is Qasim Hashimzai, the deputy justice minister, an articulate man who wears pinstriped suits and returned several years ago from long exile in the West. "The principles of Islamic jurisprudence are perfectly logical and consistent with democratic political institutions, and the Koran gives people lots of freedom," Hashimzai said. "But it all depends who interprets Islam -- a rigid person, a moderate person or a one-eyed person."

(Washington Post)

Hashimzai also claimed that execution as penalty for converting to another faith, stemmed from earlier times, when Islam was under threat, and made less sense today. In the case of Rahman's high-profile prosecution, he said, "I think political hands were behind it. Someone wanted to test the system, to put the government in confrontation with Islam and with the West."

The article also claimed that a "few younger, educated Afghans said they strongly disagreed with executing a convert or enforcing harsh punishments, but they said they could not afford to be quoted for fear they would be ostracized and possibly hounded".

"our mullahs are very strict, and many people are not educated, so they follow them", said a young man who, when interviewed, said he felt Rahman should be spared.

Hm. Freedom is choice. I agree with babs on this.

A final quote from the Post article:

After the service, worshipers offered nearly identical opinions, saying Islam was a democratic and beneficent faith -- but that no one had the right to leave it.

"Islam is the most perfect religion in the world. We have accepted it, and we should stick to it," said Mahmad Humayun, 35, a clean-shaven science instructor at Kabul University. "Islam is the basis for democracy. It gives rights to all people. Therefore, we must all think very carefully and never do anything to cause Islam problems."

Freedom is choice. But what kind of choice would be made, when a person knows nothing of the outside world, and no other reality other than what he or she has been taught? Such freedom of choice that Mr. Mahmad Humayun claims is the same freedom that Mormons choose, that sub-saharan african families who indulge in female circumcision choose. All is done on a basis of religion and cultural identity.

May the voices in Mr. Abdul Rahman's head keep him safe, just in case his gods can't.

The day Donna Brazile came to town

2006-04-22T13:01:00.000-07:00

Donna Brazile, campaign manager for Vice President Al Gore’s failed bid for the Presidency, discussed 2006 and 2008 election prospects at Roger Williams University on Monday, April 10.

Brazile’s lecture, titled “American Electoral Politics: Prospects for 2006 and 2008,” began at 4:00 p.m. in room 157 of the Feinstein College of Arts and Sciences building on the Bristol Campus at One Old Ferry Road.

That was the official uni press release for the event. My immediate reaction was Lord, no WAY am I going to witness another sorry display of yank election politics. Shouldn't there be, by god, a limit to the amount of campaign tales an international student can take?

I went anyway. Curiosity killed the Garfield, and further more, they had cookies for refreshment.

I had first slotted Donna as just another suit out there to bang a drum to the beat of a personal agenda. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Meet Donna Brazile, ladies and gentlemen:

Ms. Brazile comes from Louisiana. She named her book "Cooking With Grease", and it's a "powerful, behind-the-scenes memoir of the life and times of a tenacious political organizer and the first African-American woman to head a major presidential campaign." (aalbc.com)

You could tell she's used to that mic. With a southern smile and a husky rich tone, she blew the audience away with jokes at everyone's expense: her own, the Republicans, the Dems, FEMA.

The room was filled. She could've used the moment to wave the Democrat flag. She could've stomped and roared over the Gore campaign, and the lack of transparency. She could've ripped apart Bush's domestic policy.

Instead, she chose to talk about her first political campaign: at age 9, Brazile rode her bike around, getting children and parents to vote for a city councillor who had promised a playground in her neighbourhood. The campaign was successful. Since then, Ms. Brazile has always fought for the issues more than just the party colours.

She also talked about Louisiana, her home. Eloquent she was, just like in her article in the Washington Post, after Katrina hit:

"New Orleans is my hometown. It is the place where I grew up, where my family still lives. For me, it is a place of comfort and memories. It is home."

She spoke for more than an hour, and no one left, even after the cookies got over. She talked across lines, saying how important it was for young people to vote intelligently, to be part of decision-making, to run for office. For Donna Brazile, America's hope sat in that room. Looking around at the nodding faces and hands raised to ask questions, I knew she had got each and everyone of us in that room. And not only did she put campaigning in perspective-- you need to fight for what's worth making the change-- but she also gave the Dems a human face, a southern warmth, and a firm grounding that for many in the room, the Dems had never showed before.

She criticized the Dems for never taking a united stand on an election issue. She lined up possible candidates for the 2008 primaries. She juggled Dems and Republicans with equal grace, and equal dry wit.

She also told stories. Of the two white guys in New Orleans who moved members of her family to safety after seeing them stranded on TV, eventhough they lived 5 hours away and could only be reached by boat. She told other stories-- of her various campaigns, of meeting Bush a couple of evenings before her talk, when she asked him to rebuild the levees. Of her old uncle Book (who was called Book because he always gave the kids books for presents) who died two days after being evacuated. She took Old Uncle Book back to their ancestral home, a little town where her family had land given to them when they were sharecroppers after the civil war. Her eyes lit up as she told us of the welcome Uncle Book had, where people lined up and said yeah, there's your land. Bury him here, where he wanted to be. And, welcome home.

No one wanted to leave. And everyone wanted to go talk to her. Yours truly toddled down, feeling unkempt and unsure: how does one talk with capitol hill types? Donna grabbed my hand, and asked for my name with a big smile. In that one moment, I was back in new orleans.

Abdel and I told her what we saw downtown, in the ghost-town lanes that turned off the main roads, of the ravaged landstrip along the road that led to Baton Rouge. We told her about loving the jazz, and the jumbalaya. Like every Louisianian I've met, she thanked us, gave us hugs, and we hugged back, tumbling over ourselves to tell her about Ruth's house and how she didn't have flood insurance. Donna immediately gave us a number to give Ruth, and told us she could help, "tell her Donna said so".

The lady is beyond cool. And it aint just me who says this. Donna Brazile is many things, from being the Chair of the Democratic National Committee’s Voting Rights Institute (VRI) and an Adjunct Professor at Georgetown University in Washington, DC, to the first African American to lead a major presidential campaign, to a weekly contributor and political commentator on CNN’s Inside Politics and American Morning, to a fellow at Harvard’s Institute of Politics.

She is also among Washingtonian Magazine’s 100 Most Powerful Women in Washington, D.C., and Essence Magazine’s 50 Most Powerful Women in America.

She also likes eating at MacDonalds. And when she said that good government was every thinking individual's responsibility, I raised my coke can with all the other new england and jersey kids in the room.

Hail Donna. You got my vote.

Visit Donna Brazile online, here.

RWU at night

2006-04-19T20:17:00.000-07:00

Wandered around on saturday night with Siwar's camera. This was the result. Below's the preview.

On the union of black holes

2006-04-17T21:17:00.000-07:00

In a death spiral,
two black holes hurtle
to meet and eat each other.

"these things are hard to see"
said the scientist, microscope
and lab-rat on his knee.

If the biggest thing in the universe
is emptiness and gravity,
what then of this sadness, of you and me?

Lets fling ourselves into each other,
gobbling stars on the way. Finally, at last,
there won't be any bills to pay.

___________

April 17, 2006— Astronomers have spotted the gargantuan spiraling contrails of two super-massive black holes that are on a mega gigantic collision course.

The billion-star devouring black holes are the first to be found on such a cosmically cataclysmic death spiral and may help explain how the most monstrous black holes in the universe are created: by cannibalism.

"This was an accidental discovery," said astronomer Craig Sarazin of the University of Virginia... "These things are very hard to see," said Milosavljevic

- Discovery Channel, "Huge Black Holes on Collision course", by Larry O'Hanlon.

More on this, here.

Hey Jud-as

2006-04-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

He told me that he saw you
lying on an ice floe.
You had groaned and moaned,
with a bloody mary at your side.

(He gulped his beer fast when he talked;
never a good sign.
But the band was taking ten,
and the bar was still open)

So anyway, he told me he saw you,
and that you had frowned
as you chewed a celery stick.
"Betrayal doesn't pay", you had cried.

I asked, What good is silver anyway?
He fingered his loose change, and said
that you had said those very words,
then had asked him to take pictures.

His camera was broken, and he told you so.
You wept hot tears into the ocean, careful
to keep your ice floe safe. He then asked
why you were skinny dipping so far north.

It all began with a kiss, you sighed.
You had been called to a secret meeting,
where jesus spoke to you from his tread-mill.
you were the chosen one; a kiss sealed the pact.

He gulped more beer then, fingered more change.
Big wet lips; I knew he had wanted to ask you
what it felt like to kiss a god.He had instead
asked, why then, this 364 day pass in hell?

He claims you had readjusted your icicles, then
recounted a strange tale; you broke silence
and wrote in your live journal. Jesus found out
coz he-- of course-- owns Google.

This one Arctic day was the saviour's grace.
He had asked you how bad it was, you know,
down there. You apparently sighed,
and said the vodka could be better.

The bar maid came back, and
smiled as she lit my smoke. She
asked if you wanted more ice.
I said, yeah. You probably did.

_____________

After seeing this, here.

"April 10, 2006 — History's great betrayer Judas Iscariot was actually a loyal disciple who simply followed Jesus's orders, according to a manuscript which has resurfaced after nearly 1,700 years.

Made in 300 A.D. in Coptic script on 13 sheets of papyrus, both front and back, the document is believed to be a translation of the original Gospel of Judas, written in Greek the century before.

Presented on Thursday by the National Geographic Society at a news conference in Washington, D.C., the Gospel of Judas was discovered in the Egyptian desert near Beni Masar in the 1970s..."

Tim's work

2006-04-07T21:51:00.000-07:00

Permit me to introduce you to Timothy Senaviratne.

Tim lives in Sri Lanka, and is interested in many things. He's also good at these many things-- like photography, being human, digital art, singing, smiling and loads more.

Tim's story is here.

Tim's art work is here.

You need to see both.

Reggaeton!

2006-04-03T15:49:00.000-07:00

So it's what everyone's dancing to. One day it too shall pass. Till then...

Sigh. Oh, what the hell :)

Frankie J- Obsession [Reggaeton Mix]

While my ukulele gently weeps

2006-03-25T16:03:00.000-08:00

Ok, so Im stuck on the Harrison original. And covers of the same keep findin' me.

Here's an eclectic version by Jake shimabukuro:

While My Guitar Gently Weeps on Transbuddha

sigh. I kill me.

New Orleans travel log

2006-03-24T12:37:00.000-08:00

day 1:

leave for the airport at 5am, under the kind auspices of Rebecca Leuchak, our advisor, guide, and friend, who is the director of the global studies centre. After some flying, we reach new orleans at 11:45am. Wait till 2:00pm for Raju and Khalifa to join us from Dickinson, Carlisle PA. Another hour or so is spent in figuring out how we get to the camp site. Al Roderiguez a.k.a Big Al is the nice guy who drives us down. On the way, he tells us how he now lives in Baton Rouge with his wife, since his house in Slidell was ruined. We also get first hand accounts of how FEMA messed people up with their promises of trailers.

We reach the camp with big signs that proclaim jesus as the way, the truth, and the means to rehabilitation. Hm. Surrounded by baptists and go-cans, we dump our bags and fear the worst. Tulane University, who we were supposed to work with, abandoned us due to "space issues". De profundis. For those who dont know about go-cans, they are these darling little plastic booths with a plastic hole in it that the masses "go" in, creating every level of hell till some samaritan comes by and hoses it out. I thus began to understand how bad bad karma could get. That night at a camp meeting of the "campus crusaders" [yes, thats what the group was called] we were told there was a house that needed gutting. 4758 Gawain Drive. Her name's Ruth Hayes. The night was cold, the camp cots noisy, and our fate, sealed. Was this a good idea?

Night 1:

Raju, Khalifa and I make a break for freedom, sin and a working flush system. Get a cab. Go down to the French quarter. There is fresh pizza, live music and our first jazz bar- Fritzel's. We also meet Peter for the first time-- We heart bulgarians.

Day 2:

We all wake early, coz we all didnt sleep. Go-cans avoided with a shudder. A strong bladder was thanked. We left at around 9 with a group from Shippensberg, another university who had sent their students down to new orleans to help out. Such groups were common, just that unlike us, most had a religious focus to their shovelling and clearing. Morning prayers were said. At this time, we silently thanked our gods that at least our loved ones had working flush systems. Armed with shovels and dust masks, we set off.

Ruth's house hadn't been touched by anyone, yet. The water mark was at about 3.5 feet. Inside, rotting wood held clues of who this woman was. Mouldy nursing certificates. Disneyland memorabilia. Elvis records. Old crystal. A shoe. Lots of medicine tied up in now water-logged bags. An old couch that used to be a different colour before Katrina. We began shovelling.

We did good work that day. Pushed out the rotting fridge, the furniture, broke down some of the wood work. Khalifa the curly one took many pictures and ruined his back. Abdel opened the rotting fridge, causing the Shippensberg students to almost descend to epithets that wouldve jeopardized their salvation. Yours truly ripped her jeans. Talk about the learning curve. We returned to a frugal meal and more go-cans.

Night 2:

Desperate for debauchery, inspite of a delay, we (Khalifa, Siwar, Maya and I) took off to India House, the hostel that Peter was staying at. The goal was a clandestine hot shower. The entire group gradually landed up at the hostel. We collectively decide that we love the place. We then head out with Peter leading the way. Discovered a mediterranean cafe. Met up with Khalifa's friend, Peter, who's from Bulgaria. Much hookah was smoked. Much hummus eaten.More hookah smoked. Khalifa got the closest thing to stoned. We returned happy, driven back to the camp by a Bosnian cabbie. Got stared at suspiciously by the campus crusanders who were on night duty. Laughed.

Day 3:

Woke with the decision that morning shovelling and nightly debauchery is a good combination. Went to house. Shovelled. Wheel barrowed. wore mask. Ruth came over, and picked over her stuff with youmna, khalifa and I. She brought no anger, despair or frustration. Instead, she brought a calm smile and two weak knees. Wheezing a little because she has only 50% use of her lungs, she watched with us as the government's clean up crew came for the rancid fridge. We carried baseball trophies, old albums, and a teddy bear to her car. She wanted the crystal. Left a gary larson coffee mug for me. We were moved beyond measure. We also discovered the neighbours abandoned backyard as a happy alternative to the nearest go-can, which was about a mile away. Long live third world inventiveness!

Night 3:

The night post reaching Bourbon Street is a happy blur. Let it be known, one can walk in the street with a 20 ounce glass of beer for a dollar or two. There is live music in every bar. After the first two steel guitars, the night is a happy blur. Fritzel's, a jazz club, happened again, as it did that first night. 1930's smooth european jazz sound. Khalifa, as usual, got some great pictures. Raju and I, as usual, got some great jack and coke.

Day 4:

Ruth's house again. Breaking down of walls. Pulling out of kitchen fittings. We are all into the groove of destruction: wood beams, broken flooring, roaches-- all, all find the dump pile out in front. The government's cleaning crew come by. Almost every person who drives by has a wave and smile for us. This is good work. We could stay here for a month, or two, or three.

Night 4:

By now, the brilliant shower plan is a daily affair: an intrepid few of us travel to Peter's hostel and take a shower silently, quickly. Ninjas on a mission. The hostel as a beer vending machine. Raju and I are in heaven. The resident cat is old, black, aloof, and goes by the name of Tandy. Short for Tandoori.

Tonight is St. Paddy's day-- this means drunk white people, green t-shirts, funny hats, much mardi gras beads, and green coloured beer. We avoided the funny hats, t shirts and coloured beer. Raju figured out that the smartest way to get the most beads was to dance and yell in front of the floats. That he did. Success. We went to a cuban music place called blue nile. Went to frietzels again. Or was that the next night? Great jazz, and a green blur. Happiness. Also went by tropical isle and funky pirate: pirate got some incredible live blues-- Big Al and the Blues Masters rock every night.

Day 5:

We have moved into India House. Go back to the house for one last day of cleaning up. Ruth came by and said bye: hugs, numbers, and good words were exchanged. She fed us pizza. Yes, Khalifa took pictures. Good work done. The day is spent in happy quiet.

Night 5:

The night saw Siwar, Maya, Abdel, Raju and I take to Bourbon. Never again will that happy street witness such an international invasion. They will tell the tales of it to their grand-children. Suffice to say, there was much dancing and a strip club involved, the latter for a mere 15 mins. Experiences, all. We think Abdel had more fun at the strip club than anyone else, but this is open to comment. Arf arf.

Evening 6:

The final evening, at least for me, since yours truly woke only in the late afternoon. We listened to Steamboat willie play in the jazz garden. Walked Bourbon one last time, with comradely glances. Heard Jamel Sherif play the cornet like a god. Danced final dances.

The next day, we found the airport shuttle and left.

Meet me in new orleans. I'll be there again, boots, beads, smile and all.

O Susanna, no don't you cry for me-- I'm goin' to Lou'siana with a hammer on my knee

2006-03-13T17:09:00.000-08:00

so, a bunch of us are off to help out in N'Orleans. We will be gutting houses, and painting walls.

Working with Tulane University. Staying at a camp site. There's a roster for shower use.

Talk about an alternate spring break. See y'all on the 21st.

Neil Gaiman found!

2006-03-07T19:48:00.000-08:00

Not only did the goblin find MC Hammer here, but she also found this charming young fellow.

Anshu things he's great. The goblin trusts anshu's taste.

Go read Anansi Boys and tell me what you think.

Anyone seen Stephen King on Blogger yet?

Blank noise project: 2:30pm

2006-03-06T18:24:00.000-08:00

Whenever we talked about it, it was always the same set-up: a bus at rush-hour. In madras, like in most cities here, this could be every hour of the day except after 10pm.

For us though, rush-hour meant 2:30pm.

After 10pm, things were ok. Apparently south Indian men prefer to work in crowds. Almost empty buses meant you were left in peace, at least till you got down at your stop.

But if you were like us, you traveled in daylight. 3 rupees could get you from college back home, and most times it was six of you, laughing, passing change, hanging on to worn handles and the back of seats to make sure the red lights didn’t send you toppling into the seething crowd all around. But the crowd was always there: little kids in dirty green shorts, STD-ISD booth boys, watchmen, college guys. Sisters drenched in vinegar sweat, on their way back to their convent. Nurses. Maids. Me.

Most times, 6 of you didn’t mean you let your guard down. Sheer proximity meant arms breasts asses thighs moustaches hands were every where. Most times this didn’t mean more than a nudge, or an excessive lack of balance when that red light came around.

You got wise. You held your bag in front you, for instance. We were a roman military formation: facing every direction, a foot placed by each one to ensure a earnest stomp or kick when the lack of balance got too obvious.

It was part of the routine. Decency wasn’t the issue. The ones with a dupatta pinned across both shoulders got it as bad as the rest of us, sometimes worse. But usually there was no big outcry. Maybe it’s the heat of madras: after a point, the hands and grins were one with the flies—As annoying, and shooed away with the same frown.

Sometimes you lost your temper. Like this one time that I shoved an elbow into some fucker’s ribs, who in turn elbowed back. Hard. I yelled, in pain and annoyance for not having seen it coming. He of course, timed the jab with his stop. He got away and I was left with a smarting left boob and the tired, placating eyes of the other five. Since it was in English, and since I have short hair, the crowd didn’t know exactly how to react. There was a pause. But since I wasn’t crying, and since no one else was yelling, the bus moved on. I stared down at my shoes.

No one else was yelling.

She moved closer to me and murmured, “you shouldn’t have reacted. You know they just do more if you make a noise. Suppose he follows you tomorrow?”. Her eyes were round behind glasses that needed a wipe.

It was my stop. Familiar, the spittle shining up the tar, the smell of piss and tired, unwashed people who had another 2 hours of travel ahead of them. Her eyes were round behind glasses that needed a wipe.

Whether we would get rubbed up against tomorrow or not, was still open to chance.
What was as certain as the tar under my feet, was the fear in her voice.

The fear in her mind. Their minds.

I know a girl who carries a knife in her satchel. I know the anger that tenses my shoulders still when I remember that jab, that makes me wonder why I didn’t aim for his balls.

Not like we want to kill or maim all male travelers. Just those who don’t understand the concept of balance, inside buses at red lights.

tempus fugit

2006-03-05T20:29:00.000-08:00

It's been a while
Since I could hold my head up high
and it's been a while
Since I first saw you
It's been a while
since i could stand on my own two feet again
and it's been a while
since i could call you
But everything I can't remember as fucked up as it may seem
the consequences that I've rendered
I've stretched myself beyond my means

It's been a while
since i could say that i wasn't addicted and
It's been a while
Since I could say I love myself as well and
It's been a while
Since I've gone and fucked things up just like i always do
It's been a while
But all that shit seems to disappear when i'm with you
But everything I can't remember as fucked up as it may seem
the consequences that I've rendered
I've gone and fucked things up again

Why must i feel this way?
just make this go away
just one more peaceful day

Its been awhile
Since I could lok at myself straight
and it's been awhile
since i said i'm sorry
It's been awhile
Since I've seen the way the candles light your face
It's been awhile
But I can still remember just the way you taste
But everything I can't remember as fucked up as it may seem
I know it's me i cannot blame this on my father
he did the best he could for me

It's been a while
Since I could hold my head up high
and it's been a while since i said i'm sorry

Ever had that feeling that nothing ever changes, but you grow older anyway?

The Blank Noise Project

2006-03-02T20:04:00.000-08:00

Is hosting a blogathon on March 7th, here.

The official word from them, is--

Marking our one year foray into the blog world, we’ve decided to host a Blog-a-thon on the issue of street harassment. No, you don’t have to run anywhere (thankfully) to participate, you’ve just got to get to your computer this TUESDAY (7th MARCH) and post your thoughts on street harassment/ eve teasing on your blog. You can write about anything related to the topic: testimonies, opinions on harassment, comments about the Blank Noise project, would all be great. It doesn't matter where you're from, where you live, or whether you're a man or a woman - we'd love to have you on board.

Visit here for more, and if you'd like to be a part for this. Deadline for signing up is March 6th. You'll find me there too.

While My Guitar Gently Weeps...

2006-02-28T12:24:00.000-08:00

"Lynne and Petty were joined by Steve Winwood on organ and Harrison's son Dhani on guitar for the Wilburys' smash hit "Handle With Care," followed by Harrison's "White Album" staple "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." Prince emerged from the side of the stage to join in on the latter about halfway through, unleashing an extended solo".

Taken from here.

Listen to this brilliant performance here

You can't touch this!!!!!!!!!

2006-02-24T13:38:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah. Hammer's got blog-time!!

I love how everyone's here. Anyone seen Elvis?

Keep it poppin', you're still my man. Wear them funkypants, tho.

CAN'T TOUCH THIS (MC Hammer)

Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

jugun ianfu

2006-02-21T18:02:00.000-08:00

Thats the new phrase I learnt today. It's Japanese for "military comfort women".

This evening at Roger Williams University, Ms. Ok Sun Kim and Ms. Yong Soo Lee came to speak to an audience about the treatment of 200,000 young girls, most of them Korean, at the hands of the Japanese military during WWII. Ms. Kim and Ms. Lee were accompanied by a translator and a documentary which explained what being (Jugun Ianfu) meant to these women.

The two little old women are now in their early 80's. At the time of their enslavement, they were 15 years old.

According to Dr. Chunghee Sarah Soh, Ph.D. of the San Francisco State University, Jugun ianfu were created by the Japanese Army because their goal was to

"... enhance the morale of the military by providing amenities for recreational sex. The authorities believed such amenities would help prevent soldiers from committing random sexual violence toward women of occupied territories, which became a real concern after the infamous Nanjing Massacre in 1937. Besides its reputation, the military authorities were also concerned with the health of the troops, which prompted their close supervision of the hygienic conditions in the comfort stations in order to help keep sexually transmitted diseases under control".

It wasn't just Korean women who were targeted. According to Dr. Soh's research, 80% were Korean, but comfort women were enslaved from villages throught Japanese occupied territory-- They were taken from Taiwan, the Philippines, Indonesia, Burma and the Pacific islands.

From the testimonials as well as research reports, it's evident these women were subject to horrific treatment. The only reparation ever received was in 1948 when a tribunal in Batavia (today's Jakarta) convicted Japanese military officers who had forced 35 Dutch women into becoming comfort women. There was no mention made at that time of comfort women of any other race or nationality.

The victims of this practice have suffered diseases, addictions and/or a ruptured uterus. They have lived in loneliness and poverty. They have received no compensation and no apology from the Japanese government. They have been aging in silence. Until now.

In 1991, Kim Hak Sun (who was featured in the documentary that was shown this evening)gave the first public testimonial. Since then, more has been written and said to make sure the issue goes beyond the confines of regional politics in Japan and North & South Korea.

At present, Japanese Conservatives deny the existence of any evidence that points to the practice of coercing young girls into being the army's comfort women.

This wasn't the first time in history that women received such treatment. I have heard of this practice having occured amongst Nordic tribes, the Romans, Greeks and African tribes. U.N troops have been accused of the same crime in Kossovo. But the faces and words that I saw on that screen today made an impression like no Homeric talk of female slaves could have ever done.

I saw Ms. Ok Sun Kim outside in the hallway, as I was zipping up my jacket. A gentle graceful woman in silk and white slip-on shoes, she returned my bow with one of her own, and with a smile, went back into the hall. I stood there, mouth agape, wishing I spoke enough Korean to say "thankyou" and "sorry", though it would've sounded as stupid then as it does now.

Ms. Yong Soo Lee, the second "grandmother", as they were referred to the whole evening, had an interesting story to tell. She has told it before to a Chinese newspaper, and I quote it here:

"There was a 'comfort station' in Taiwan where I then received pilots who belonged to the kamikaze, a special suicide brigade."

One of Japanese kamikaze pilots, who repeatedly raped her in Taiwan, told Ms. Lee that she was his first love.

"That Japanese soldier gave me a Japanese nick-name, 'Toshiko'. And the kamikaze pilot taught me a song. He made up a song, because he was afraid he would die when he finally had to fly.

"It's in Japanese," Ms. Lee said, and then she softly sang the lilting tune which she never forgot.

"The song goes like this," she added, translating the Japanese into Korean, which was then rendered into English by a translator during the interview:

"The fighting planes are taking off / Taiwan is disappearing far below / Clouds appear / Nobody is saying goodbye to me / One person who can cry for me is Toshiko / We will fight in Okinawa / If I die, I will guide you to your mother / So please don't cry, because you will go back to your mother."

That shred of hope, amid their mutual doom and suffering, at least allowed Ms. Lee to believe she might survive.

"I think he is my savior. I still thank him," she said, clarifying that she felt no romance for him.

"He came to me many times. That soldier told me I was his first love."

Occasionally weeping while telling her tale, Ms. Lee said the kamikaze pilot "gave me all his soap, and other things for taking care of myself, because he said he was leaving tomorrow to die."

Ms. Lee never married.

For the whole story, click here.

Again-- this is not the first time women have been used and abused. This will not be the last time. But this is not about casting stones-- It is about recognizing history. Ms. Kim and Ms. Lee want an official apology. And they want to go back to Korea. May whichever god is listening, grant it to them.

For more on comfort women, visit:

http://www.cmht.com/cases_cwcomfort3.php
http://www.mogef.go.kr/english/dev/victims/index.jsp
http://www.comfort-women.org/v2/

Of Model U.N conferences, bars, smart economic sanctions, Floyd studio clips from 1970 and other sundry matters

2006-02-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

I just got back from Harvard's model UN conference.
As the delegate from Cyprus in the UNWC-Applications, I sat with 551 other delegates in the General Assembly simulation and tried to come up with a treaty that regulated unilateral actions.

Thats the resume version. Now for the truth.

Being an ivy league-er apparently doesn't make you good at organizing. Delegates from around the world-- literally-- decried the lack of parliamentary procedure. The fact that they came from different countries and thus could decry in different languages made the entire event perfect.

I wish this happened more often-- college grads and undergrads getting together, discussing politics in the day and alcohol, music & sex at night. Its proof that woodstock will never die.

Disclaimer #1: I deslike the present structure of the UNO. It's post WWII philosophy is not in tune with the world today-- there can be no P5, or veto, in a world where Surinam and Burkina Faso [not to mention Cyprus and Brazil] introduce amendments and motions at model UNs. There is an open market, with non-state actors and people who communicate via the internet. Like Windows, the UNO needs updates too. But thats just my little rant.

Disclaimer #2: I chose to not go to this model UN for the above-stated reasons. I ended up going because my friends asked me to, as there was an opening in the 11th hour. Throwing principles and homework to the wind, I took off with zero preparation to this conference.

ok, it wasn't all alcohol, music & sex. Even from my perch as observer of the world, there were moments of brilliance throughout these past 4 days. In committee for instance, the latin american nations quickly got together, and the arab and african nations had no qualms joining them. Turkey, Greece and Cyprus sent each other notes and smiles, and vowed that if it was upto us, the 1974 dispute would be settled peaceably with a referendum, and Turkey would part of the E.U in 2007.

Chile, Zimbabwe, Argentina, Cyprus, Antigua and Barbuda, Jordan, Uruguay and Cuba became committee buddies-- We sent notes to each other about amending articles, sending memos to the other two sub committees and going out for coffee when the unmoderated caucus was called for.

South Africa got my salutations because he spoke with a britly clipped accent, and wore his turban and beard with true Sikh pride. Namibia was quietly amused. Losotho became Cyprus's close allies in clandestine breaks and laughing down certain votes. Ireland looked different without his tie, and deserved the award he got at the end.

Zimbabwe hit on mongolia. Chile followed a delegate who is from China but refused to tell me what country she represented. At 2:30am, sitting in the lobby with my bare feet up on a coffee table and my ipod on, I saw diplomatic relations carried on like never before. And yet, there was a sense of community to all of it: that all this dancing, and talking, and drunken pulling of fire alarms was done in the spirit of global good will.

Caught between cynicism and amusement, I was witness to beauty.

Like when the norwegian delegate sat down at the lobby grand piano, midst the false fire alarms and wobbly giggling female delegates, and played till his veins stood out. He played classical music up and down the scales never stopping, for two hours.

Like when Pakistan sent a cordial note to me, asking me to explain my reference to Musharraf. Like us toasting each other with beers across a room at the delegate's dance that evening.

Like Chile and I discussing canadian politics [of which, as a native, he is privy to] till 4am.

Like Ron the security guy discussing the Patriots and Life with those who stood around, unbuzzed, midst running after underage drinkers on the 14th floor.

Like getting stuck in an elevator with 21 other people and realizing that yes, I am claustrophobic.

Like hearing a delegate's take on model UNs, and why Harvard is full of sods-- Unorganized, he said. I seconded the motion.

As he said, nothing comes out of model UNs, except funding, fun and a good resume. Hopping up and down outside the Park Plaza hotel to keep warm in the -2 degree night that surrounded us, he said that he went up to speak at his first couple of model UNs in order to get laid. Which occured, of course [NB-- You agree with everything said by a drunken graduate post 1:35am. Its a thing]. But now, he said-- this was all pomp and show.

But of course. It's Harvard. But what hurts those of us who can consume alcohol and stay intelligent, is that such conferences are living proof of why the UN never succeeds in settling political disputes.

For instance-- The treaty that the UNWC came up with finally, had no reference to smart economic sanctions, eventhough the treaty contained specs for the creation of a body that would oversee matters of unilateral action. The amendment was shot down by those who sat up front, who-- as happens in most democratic processes these days-- were a minority. The majority sat beyond the microphones, and in silent angst, sent notes and played knoughts and crosses.

This new body that was set up would have no say about unilateral economic sanctions, "smart" or otherwise.

And in today's edition of the NYTimes and Washington Post?
Israel has frozen the financial assets of the new government in Palestine, which will leave the bureaucracy hamstrung by the end of this month. They claim to have done this as they fear Hamas will now take the government in an extremist direction. They have done this despite global dialogue, Russia's stance, and Abbas publically coming out at every opportunity and saying that there would be no extremist action taken, and the peace process would carry on. They have done this inspite of Hamas having shown no proof of "extremist" decisions as a legal part of the legislative, today.

And no one will say anything about it.

And we, unofficial diplomats, tied our own hands by leaving the amendment out.

Now you know why so much booze was consumed those three nights. Or so I was told.

NB-- If drinking in a bar in Boston, make sure you tip well. Otherwise she will muck up your mojito. Ah, Experience! The cruel lessons you teach!

Also-- The biggest thrill for me in Boston this weekend? Going into the hotel's bar, opening a tab, and paying for it myself. 3 drinks, a quiet wish that they played Floyd istead of 50 Cent, and a leisurely exit into the lobby, to talk to Ron, and take a tulip from an arrangement up to the room.

Speaking of Floyd though-- Thanks to Google video, I was blessed enough to come across sections of the 1970 studio sessions that the band did in California. I also go to see a few of the Pulse videos, like High Hopes and Comfortably Numb. My cup ran over and made a priyanka puddle, only coz I also got to see the 'see emily play' video, and pigs on the wing too.

In short, I am mellower, wiser, richer in experience and good accquaintances and loaded with homework like only Sisyphus would understand. Good stuff, at the end of the day.

PS: If you go to Boston, visit 'au bon pain'-- the best sandwiches and pain au chocolat I've had in a long time.

PPS: Jeff Buckley was born the angel he now literally is. If you have not heard his cover of Cohen's 'Hallelujah', and if you have a gmail account, then let me know.

Look, ma-- I'm flyin'!

2006-02-15T15:10:00.000-08:00

disclaimer: the blogger would like her readers to remember she just recently turned 21, and for all her maturity can't resist such an opportunity to yell out

WHOOO-HOOO!!!

ahem. So Im a tad kicked. One of my poems were selected to be read out at the Kala Ghoda arts festival in Mumbai on the 12th of this month.

Here's the official report of the same-- Apparently someone played the violin in an effort to interpret the poem, which btw, can be found here.

I'm curious why the violinist tried to find a "calmness" in what he felt was the "disturbed" atmosphere of the thing.

[Do note my barefaced pomposity: I'm actually dissecting this damn thing, on my own blog, under my own name, the very moment I hear about it. Damn kids these days]

I'm also curious to know what the faces of those listening looked like.

But mostly, I am grateful.

The 6th of this month

2006-02-10T14:54:00.000-08:00

What a day. It took 4 days of reflection [and threatening imran with death by drowning in a small innocuous pool of anorexic bat's blood if he didn't send me the pictures, with much thanks to anshu for the image] to finally type this out.

It was magnificent. Mum and dad decided to wish me when it was my birthday in India. As did the duck. My brother did the same-- all these happy people in India & Australia are officially declared by me to be living in the wrong hemisphere. Hmph. No, but it was a good feeling. Much wuv. Much sleepy thanks and falling asleep midst wishes. Beautiful.

Kevin and gina got me a cake. Ned was there to sing along. Hell, everyone should have ned to sing at their birthday cake-cutting. And gina put on 21 candles.

Gul wished me. My onion called. Lamya and imran sent cards. BENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN you doll, you did try, am sorry. Far away, along a starlit coast in Pondi, a drink was had at 7:31 as a "plesent". Got a whole bunch of wishes on ryze and facebook-- Hena was there thrice, with that damn red nose of hers. Baldy came by too :) My maya got me my first lip-liner: neutral, and tasting of caramel. The guys took me out for dinner to jackie's galaxy. We had much food and fun.

How cycles change.
The people who were the most important to me, about this time last year, were no where in sight.
And I don't hold this against 'em, at all.
But such is beautiful, all this journeying. To truly know, without any discussion, that everything and every person is on its way to someplace.

Am at peace.

Has anyone btw, tried salvia? Do tell.

"Today is the greatest day I ’ve ever known"...

2006-02-08T19:21:00.000-08:00

... As the Smashing Pumpkins once said. And of course, you will let me tell you why.

My roomie is now my ex-roomie-- Not only does this mean that I can
1.sleep in my birthday suit
2.play AC/DC as loud as I like it , and
3.yell vernacular profanities & words of affection over the phone long distance,
but it also means that I have a sweet pad all to myself. Abdel & imran are coming over on Friday to help me set up, and the rest of the crew will show up and we will celebrate my new found "space" with chinese take out, arabic music and much yelling.

My birthday was beautiful, and made perfect by people from around the world. How often can a body claim such to happen in a lifetime? I am happy. More on that when imran sends me pictures to go with the copy.

Got to read Amit's brilliant blog-- Kept me enthralled for an hour. Stopped only because msn called. Wonderful stuff.

Also-- The scholarship gods have agreed to our collective idea to go down to n'orleans and help out during spring break. That's right-- no body shots in cancun, we're here to be responsible. Ahem.

This evening, I was lucky enough to meet the current president of Brown-- Dr. Ruth Simmons is an inspiration. Erudite she is. Dressed in pink, smiling chocolate. Calm, her voice like aged honey and summer in a school that rarely hears such. I will one day accept a degree from her on a stage. This is a promise... to my quackles.

Lit mag is a great class-- Im actually learning how to put together a magazine in there, the absolute nit-grits of editing, proofing, querying, typesetting, you name it Im in it. This is all good.

There's a summer internship in washington d.c with amnesty international. There is a global water class where I get to present papers.

goals to be fulfilled before dec 2006:

1) visit the gym more than just a fly-by on the way to the mail room.
2) make lots of money, legally.
3) finish writing my book.
4) develop a strategy to provide clean water to... ok, will stop.

Top of the day to ye.

"Dance fools, dance"

2006-02-05T19:35:00.000-08:00

It was a great movie, one that launched Clark Gable's career and that made me stay up till 2:30am one night in madras, when I was in the 8th.

Joan Crawford will always be brilliant.

Anyway, the title seemed to make sense as a title for this blog, considering all the noise thats been happening. Don't get me wrong-- Im all for serious dicussion. When things get out of hand though--

I dance.

And this is a great one to do that to.

DANCE, DANCE (Fall Out Boy)

Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

Post Scriptum

2006-02-03T14:02:00.000-08:00

There's an article on the danish caricature issue on msnbc.com.

The article states that both the administration in washington and the Danish ministry said that the drawings were offensive.

The article also says that "Dutch-language newspapers in Belgium and two Italian right-wing papers reprinted the drawings on Friday. The Italian papers also ran editorials criticizing European media for giving in to pressure over the drawings"

There is an online poll available on this same article, asking if the "anti-denmark protests are justified"?

Yes 15%

No 82%

Undecided 4%

I put this here as a juxtaposition to my previous blogpost, the reactions of those who read that, and abhinav's comments on it.

Because what's beautiful about democracy is its relativity-- a minority on this tiny little space in blogdom is in "reality"-- at least on an american-based and american-sponsored website-- a majority.

I put this here to show that Abhinav is not alone in his reaction to the issue.

I put this here to show how "freedom of press" can be extended to include any amount of libel or disrespect, the same way that the "necessary and proper" clause in the american constitution can be extended to include illegal surveillance and warantless imprisonment.

I put this here to showcase certain quotes out of this article:

Danish Prime Minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen, in a meeting with Egypt’s ambassador, reiterated his stance that the government cannot interfere with issues concerning the press. On Monday, he said his government could not apologize on behalf of a newspaper, but that he personally “never would have depicted Muhammad, Jesus or any other religious character in a way that could offend other people.”

While recognizing the importance of freedom of the press and expression, U.S. State Department press officer Janelle Hironimus said these rights must be coupled with press responsibility.

“Inciting religious or ethnic hatred in this manner is not acceptable,” Hironimus said. “We call for tolerance and respect for all communities and for their religious beliefs and practices.”

And another quote:

"“If they want a war of religions, we are ready,” Hassan Sharaf, an imam in Nablus, said in his sermon"

And then:

"The Jyllands-Posten said it had asked cartoonists to draw images of the prophet “to examine whether people would succumb to self-censorship, as we have seen in other cases when it comes to Muslim issues.”

Turkey’s Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan was quoted as saying the caricatures are an attack on “our spiritual values,” adding they had damaged efforts to establish an alliance between the Muslim world and Europe"

Finally,

"In Europe, senior British, French and Italian officials criticized the drawings. Austria, which holds the European Union presidency, expressed concern over the escalating crisis.

“I believe that the republication of these cartoons has been unnecessary, it has been insensitive, it has been disrespectful and it has been wrong,” British Foreign Secretary Jack Straw said"

To clarify then, once and for all--

Abhinav, and all those who hold the same view as you do on this matter--

I am not pro censorship. I am pro sensitivity. The newspaper's claim that it was all an "exercise" is ludicrous, only because it is dangerous to publically play with people's emotions. And when I say it is dangerous, it is not to imply that the world should now centre its media and culture on being sympathetic to islam. I say it is dangerous because we do not live in isolation today. Such acts affects entire countries and economies. Such acts cause an increase in hatred when communication between nations is already in a fragile state.

I say it once again-- cartoons of the pope raping a choirboy will raise global rhetoric. But it will not send the catholic nation to war with the country whose paper published it. For two reasons-- One, that there is no catholic nation, at least not comparable to the extent that there is a muslim ummah. Secondly-- For the western christian world, catholism is but a sect, and economic and cultural matters take precedence over religious matters.

Islam is unlike any world religion because of that matter. As Haqqani points out in his 'Pakistan" between mosque and military', this monotheistic religion ties in with every aspect of a beliver's life-- whether it is at the family, business or governmental level. That is a difference. And misunderstanding that difference, or trying to test its limits is sheer blindness and folly.

Do not kill the danish cartoonists. Make them see reason.
Do not carry out "experiments" in social theory using caricatures in newspapers to test how far you can push people. This can and will be equated to acts of torture in abu ghraib. And why not? There too, all the soldiers were trying to do is to test how far they could push people.

Do not force people to defend their religion. Do not use freedom as a mask while inciting hatred.

And to think some jewish scribe ages back thought that writing about 10 commandments would be enough to keep an entire group of people safe and free from strife.

Pitiful, we humans are. I am still sad.

3 old men, a fishbowl and a song

2006-02-01T16:59:00.000-08:00

At the Live 8 concert in London, what remains of Pink Floyd came together for charity.

When the opening notes are plucked, Waters [I think its Waters, doesn't sound like Gilmour] says this:

"its actually quite emotional, standing up here with these three guys after all these years. Standing to be counted with the rest of you.. Anyway, we're doing this for everyone who's not here, but particularly of course, for Syd"

'we're just two lost souls
swimming in a fishbowl, year after year.
running over the same old ground. What have we found?
The same old fears,
wish you were here'.

Listen to it here. And hold my hand, I don't care about being a baby just this once.

Reviewing reactions to Islam and Terrorism

2006-01-31T18:21:00.000-08:00

God bless foreignpolicy.com-- Its a great, low-cost way of accessing the magazine online and reading relevant opinions on current issues.

Take for instance, C. Christine Fair & Husain Haqqani's article on on islamist terrorism,'Think Again: Islamist Terrorism'. A well written article, that seeks to clear away the prevailing myths about who terrorists are and where they come from:

"Pundits and politicians of all stripes are quick to offer their wisdom on what fuels Islamist terrorism. It just so happens that much of what they say is wrong. Poverty doesn’t produce terrorists, a solution to the Israel-Palestine problem isn’t a cure-all, and young Muslim men aren’t the most likely to turn to terror. If we are going to fight a war on terror, the least we can do is understand who we are fighting"

The article addresses some of the most burning aspects of islamist terrorism that papers such as the New York Times have devoted many dead trees to, ever since 2001-- Madrasas for example, and the muslim, unmarried, male, unemployed demographic thats been touted as the most susceptible to acts of terrorism.

"“Young, Unmarried Muslim Males Are the Most Likely to Become Terrorists”
No. It is de rigueur to suggest that young, unmarried, Muslim males are the most likely population to become terrorists or to support terrorism. But from the perspective of the global supply of terrorists, this claim is false. Consider the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam in Sri Lanka. They are the world’s single largest group of suicide bombers. Their cadres are not Muslim, but Hindu by religion and nearly 40 percent are female.

Even on the issue of support for terrorism, there is reason to be skeptical about the popular convention that young males are leading the pack. In a recent survey of 6,000 Muslims in 14 countries published in Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, females were more likely to support terrorism than were males. What’s more, married and unmarried persons are equally likely to support terrorism..."

As stated before, it is a well written article. C. Christine Fair is a senior research associate at the United States Institute of Peace, and Husain Haqqani is a visiting scholar at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace and is a source well-trusted by Prof. Sawoski, a teacher of mine whose classes deal with international relations here at RWU.

However, a point I found interesting was this--

"...the significance of each regional conflict varies from one jihadi group to the next. For Algerian jihadists, their war, provoked by the refusal of the pro-Western Algerian military to accept the results of elections won by Islamists in 1991, is as significant as Palestinian resistance to Israel. Pakistani and Kashmiri jihadists spew the greatest amount of venom in their publications against “Hindu India,” not Jewish Israel..."

By stating such, the authors seem to point out that there are multiple causes, and multiple groups. This much may be true. And yet, the fact is that if what is perceived as an insult or threat is offered to the global أمة or ummah, a collective reaction will be offered by all jihadi groups, around the world.

Take for instance, the recent matter of a danish newspaper publishing "offensive" cartoons-- "The newspaper published caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad, some of which depicted him as a terrorist" (bbc.co.uk)

There were reactions to this act at all levels, from around the world-- Ministers of 17 arab nations asked the Danish government to take strong action against those responsible. Embassies were closed, or the threat was made to recall ambassadors. The publication was protested in Gaza-- many thousands of miles away. Secretary General of the Arab League Amr Moussa said:

"Why do they talk about democracy and freedom of expression just when the issue concerns Islam?" he asked. "If it concerns other religions the facts will change."

Bingo, Mr. Moussa. This is the indicator of the key fact that the authors of the FP article, the danish newspaper editors and the danish government have collectively overlooked-- Islam today has a unifying strength that no other global religion has. This is because it is far more monotheistic than christianity is today, and carries a sense of community that other religions don't have, or possess to a smaller degree. There is no hurting the sensibilities of a part of it-- You affect the whole.

The editor of the paper tried arguing for the freedom of speech. He forgot abt malicious libel.

Its not about religion or ideas-- it is people dealing with people, people hurting other people. The "terrorists" are not fighting a crusade, or attempting to convert the world to their belief. They are protecting their culture and beliefs from external aggression. Take away the aggression and things could only get better.

But who am I to talk?

That danish cartoonist is going to have his ass kicked though. Rightfully so. How dare you use the gentle art of cartooning for propoganda? Children and whimsical-minded adults read that stuff. May the spirit of Gary Larson and Bill Watterson twist his undies forever. Sniff.

I need bed. I also needed a post scriptum on this piece, due to the comments it generated. Do read it, here.

Crikey!

2006-01-25T14:52:00.000-08:00

By gorry, do I have much to tell ye--

of a quiet enlightenment, a love I thought I lost only to find I always had, a new penchant for shoes, my run in with the law, trans-atlantic flights, unexpected angels and MA courses.

It will all be told. Slowly, slowly.

For now though, an article that MUST be pointed out-- Attorney general Gonzales trying to justify the illegal serveillance indulged in by the Bush Administration:

Confronting Gonzales during his nearly half-hour speech were more than a dozen young people in the audience who turned their backs to him and held up for a banner for television cameras. The banner, loosely based on a Benjamin Franklin quote, read: "Those who would sacrifice liberty for security deserve neither."

- PETE YOST, Associated Press Writer.

Read the full article here. And check out the pic-- Dang, I'm proud of these guys.

WHOOO-HOOOOO!!!!!

2006-01-16T19:28:00.000-08:00

Walk the Line just picked up the golden globe.

Joaquin Phoenix won best actor. Reese Witherspoon won best actress-- The category hasn't shown up yet on starworld, but bloomberg.com carries the news.

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!

I LOVED THIS MOVIE!

ok, I know. No typing in caps. But I'm happy.

Oh aye-- In india. Will be back on tuesday.

The Reason

2006-01-09T00:14:00.000-08:00

For the longest time, I have not been able to understand why I came back to madras this winter. There had to be a reason for leaving my comforter-lined new-found fishbowl behind so soon-- Come on, 7 months doesn't warrant a teary-eyed return to ma and pa. It wasn't like I was homesick. In fact, as late as october, my plans for the season were meant to include at least two of the following:

i)working with Maya in the global studies office in Bristol

2) Going back to Portland and seeing Laura and Ryan and Kansei and Aman and Mike and Mary and Linda.

3)Ayush, Maya, Abdel Khader and myself together yelling in Timesquare when the ball would fall on 31st night.

And till yesterday, I did not know the reason why all that didn't happen. Being with mum and setting up the tree is all very well. Meeting old friends and new, driving to the coast and plane-ing it to delhi is quite alright. But that didnt explain a certain pattern to my actions-- ensuring I met the people I had been with last year around the same time. Laughing with them, grateful that I exist now outside their lives. Grateful too, that the few I count as close, still are. Driving past certain places-- an ex-college, a fishing village, a mofussil bus terminus, a temple, a beach, a chinese restaurant, a bridge. My room that carries no scent or smell of me, anymore. Throwing out old papers, old books. Climbing up to my water tank, relieved to find that the dragon spirit that used to live there has now gone.

It took a little book to tell me that I returned due to the second of the two greatest instincts known to human kind. The first one is fear.

"Then she turned, moved closer to Pedro Cantos, and did what she had lived for.

She curled up behind him: she pulled her knees up to her chest; aligned her feet until she felt her legs perfectly paired, the two thighs softly joined, the knees like two cups balanced one on the other, the calves separated by nothing; she shrugged her shoulders slightly and slid her hands, joined, between her legs. She looked at herself. She saw an old doll.

She smiled. Shell and animal.

Then she thought that however incomprehensible life is, probably we move through it with the single desire to return to the hell that created us, to live beside whoever, once, saved us from the inferno. She tried to ask herself where this absurd faithfulness to horror came from but found that she had no answers. She understod only that nothing is stronger than the instinct to return, to where they broke us, and to replicate that moment forever. Only thinking that the one who saved us once can do it forever. In a long hell identical to the one from which we came. But suddenly merciful and without blood"
- Baricco, Alessandro. 'Without Blood', Trans. by Ann Goldstein.

I returned due to the second of the two greatest instincts known to human kind--

The need for
closure...

Merry christmas, darfur. Happy new year, baghdad.

Googlistically speaking

2005-12-12T20:42:00.000-08:00

I'm trippin'.
Procrastinatin'.

But honestly, this was fun. Unfortunately, 'priyanka' brought up way too much abt the gandhi and the chopra, and it got boring. And apparently, Google doesn't know the blue goblin yet.

[insert threatening yet woeful growls]

So I settled for this.

My favourite?

pj is the meta devil.

Go figure. Go be a googligan.

pj is the man
pj is 2sweet2bbeat
pj is in the babybedroom
pj is made of stars
pj is back home
pj is in need of a loving home in ca
pj is famous?
pj is drifting more and more away from the huge
pj is home
pj is like rodney dangerfield
pj is evicted from big brother
pj is out
pj is a developer toolkit for parsing
pj is home and big troubles
pj is distributed in binary form in a single jar file called hip
pj is the first user interface framework that brings state
pj is not a gi jane poster girl
pj is
pj is a shameless publicity hound so if you are with a periodical
pj is between p
pj is famous? pj is famous? posted by
pj is a champion 14 lb
pj is the best golfer on the team
pj is ready
pj is not a man of few words
pj is our older norwegian fjord gelding who was born "ryvar" on a farm in illinois in 1980
pj is drifting more and more away from the huge fanbase they used to have
pj is an angel on earth she has wiped away my tears
pj is the biggest agency in pechiney world trade and since 1994
pj is made of all mahogany
pj is growing out of the stripes around her face
pj is now doing their homework together with fbi to lock down "hackers" who aleggely are involved on us hacks
pj is diagnosed when the freckles are noticed or hamartomas are found in the intestinal tract
pj is fond of many outside activities
pj is illegal if
pj is a social science graduate
pj is a director of a successful ten
pj is a breath of fresh air
pj is one of the easiest
pj is the meta devil
pj is featured on lead vocals and accordian
pj is short for a pompano jig
pj is devoted to the history of the japanese people and how and why they react to one another within their own society
pj is sponsored by
pj is listed in the world artist directory
pj is eligible to work legally in the following countries
pj is a pourable version of the popular polywater® j high performance pulling lubricant
pj is an area located in the district of petaling
pj is a factor of m
pj is just naturally curious and ready for anything
pj is saved from her pretensions by the force of her talent
pj is our retired racing greyhound
pj is so unattractive and was'nt he childish going on about why alex never picked him
pj is one of the best clowns in america winning numerous awards for her creativity
pj is a complete visual programming language based on the concepts of parallel
pj is for you
pj is a parlor
pj is defensive
pj is introduced as a man who has all the answers
pj is a toolbox for parsing
pj is wanting to get first tickets and she's first on the line
pj is clearly at height t+1 we have completed the induction
pj is currently enjoying a two
pj is also a member of the american association of suicidology and is both a member of and certified by the association for death education & counseling as a
pj is still scheduled to play bumbershoot in seattle on aug
pj is having no trouble keeping her music fresh while keeping her vision pure
pj is a big boy & is already potty trained
pj is the odds
pj is trypsin
pj is in a better place now
pj is contained in xðp; jÞ
pj is one to look out for
pj is now tested against pk
pj is all too happy to set the record straight now that he is back in the real world
pj is a relatively easy model to restore given the fact that there were more than 350
pj is currently busy working on
pj is a great source file management tool
pj is ?
pj is a very affectionate hamster and just loves to be cuddled
pj is the millennium place project coming up in the section 14 area

Qua-ack?

2005-12-10T09:27:00.000-08:00

The United States, which generates a quarter of the world's greenhouse gases, had questioned the need to engage in even nonbinding talks on the subject. When the Europeans and Canadians proposed such talks Thursday, chief American climate negotiator Harlan Watson rejected it on the grounds that it would be tantamount to formal negotiations.

"If it walks like a duck and talks like duck, it's a duck," Watson told the other delegates, according to several participants in the closed midnight session.

As Watson walked out, one of the other delegates, baffled, responded: "I don't understand your reference to a duck. What about this document is like a duck?"

- 'U.S. Joins Informal Talks on Warming', by Juliet Eilperin
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, December 10, 2005; Page A01.

Read the full article here.Only good thing about yank Presidential second terms: they're on the way out & don't give a duck's beak about winning the vote of petroleum paladins and arms manufacturers. Thus they can finally concentrate on energy policies that will keep us all, bird and human alike, breathing easier.

Quacky.

Mall-Run: For Frank O'Hara*

2005-12-06T19:58:00.000-08:00

Sunday Afternoon 12:21 all's fogged up
Inside the bus the men and women you will never find on Oprah
Wait for the final wheezing stop.
As corny as that first Godzilla we breathe furious white smoke
And rush Into the made in china warmth of PROVIDENCE PLACE
like it's the thanksgiving sale
The president
Or a jumper off the Newport bridge.

Speakers and mp3 players on sale: the only
Things sold that aint nano are the milk jugs down at 7/11.
Maya and I walk on, fists buried deep in pockets.
But where I really want to be is outside in
All that glorious slushy first real snow of Providence.

I'm not sure who's bigger today; Sponge bob,
Or the shot glass special at CRATE & BARREL.

"But where I really want to be is outside in
All that glorious slushy"—Hold up, Jack she tells me
As we scramble out of the arms of the last salesgirl
At VICTORIA'S SECRET. 2:55pm and it feels like daylight saving
And American Idol reruns. We need out.
I hold the door
For a guy in an Ozzfest hoodie. We exit.
3:05 now: we miss one bus so there's time for
Any god damned beautiful adventure in the world.
The skaters out in KENNEDY PLAZA look mournful,
Like they just found out Disney paid off the senator
To keep them forever circling to Brenda Lee:
Rockin’ around the Christmas tree.

We stand outside the 7/11 and smoke gloveless
Shivering. Holding a pint of 2% and saying THIS finally,
Aint just Bristol. There's the sign to New York, all snowed over,
We could hitch a ride, find an Uno’s and—
Yeah sure I have a lighter, and the guy says thank you and we're all right.
Screw NYC. This tight-sphinctered quaffing cheap coffee
And kids huggin and kissin only coz its this cold
Is where it's all at.
And Tim Allen in a fake beard can't find us here.

I'm so happy I want to make my third snowball of December,
But before I can ask Martha Stewart for ribbon and some tape
The 60 steams, waiting—she knows where we have to go.

_________________________________________

This poem was written on the first snow-day, here in rhode island. Maya and I went to the mall, and this be the account of that day. Statutory warning: some bits fictionalized. But of course ;)

*Frank O'Hara is one of the poets we've covered in class this semester: just covered, in fact. Last poet before the final paper, good lord. Our assignment was to write a "I do this/I do that" poem, the kind he is known for. O'Hara used everyday images and the idiom he knew, of the time he lived in yankville. I tried doing the same, except using the images and idiom of today.

Two of my favourites of his are A step away from them and the day lady died. Here's more of his stuff online.

The Light-- Non-fiction

2005-12-03T17:07:00.000-08:00

December 2, 2005. 7:35pm.

Providence Place isn't a big mall, but when you lose the only three people you know in that tinsel-wrapped world, it is suddenly larger than a New York traffic jam at 5:15, with the grumbling coffee, and the bags, and the files...

I was lost. With a bag, grumbling into my turtleneck, trying to find in my ipod the same solace I used to seek in mum's neck when such impossible events would happen in the past. No such bloody luck.

I was lost. The three moroccans were busy GAPing or Banana Republicing somewhere, and I couldn't find them.

It got worse.

I had never been into Providence before. Mum calls it the Hermit Crab complex. Call it what you will, it also meant that I had about as much knowledge of the bus numbers and stop locations in Providence as would a Tibetan Monk of the Tabo Chos-Khor Monastery.

Metallica on ipod.
Filene's shopping bag folded severely under one arm.
Survival instinct kicked in-- They are three. I am one. I will survive.

I carpe diemed my way out of the mall, looking for restaurants and crushed soda cans as signs of the way we came, the only things that could point me towards the bus stop. One doesn't try asking Rhode Islanders for help. An unwritten law.

Shapeshift-- Nose to the wind Here, the basement irish pub. Roamer, wanderer, nomad, vagabond And here again, the crushed autumn leaf that looks like diseased liver call me what you will. There, a lamp-post with the red car underneath dance little tin goddess, dance. 5 steps more and-- yes, the crushed day old Providence Journal section, with the Darkness on the cover St. Anger round my neck, he never gets respect. Cross street. Wait. What I've felt, what I've known, never shines through what I've shown Cross another street. Stop girl who's smoking, who fumbles instantly for her lighter assuming that's what Im asking her Gimme fuel, gimme fire, gimme that which I desire. Girl, boyfriend and madly barking dog direct me towards the stop. 7:50pm. Get on the bus oh please God, wake me .

8:20pm. Miss my stop, because its my first time and No Leaf Clover is on my ipod and I like listening to it at a volume louder than what the driver uses to announce the stops in.

8:21pm. Im on the wrong side of the bridge that connects Bristol and my college to Portsmouth and the rest of the world. But it was a bridge, and I assumed I would walk over it like I've walked over the chetpet overbridge so many god-awful times in madras.

But here's the deal.
Madras has no winter, and chetpet lake no deep water.
A sign says its illegal to cross the bridge on foot.
The foot-path's a foot wide, no more and no less.
The metal railing comes upto my upper thigh, no more and no less.
Winds blowing at 24 knots seem to want me and my blue coat flapping over the bridge, down into the black flat water faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrr below.

I begin to curse. Not god, not my parents, not my ipod-- But the conductor, the bridge-layer, the wind, and gravity. I cursed and swore at them all, yelling that I-- 3 cars go by, zip zip ZIP!-- would be alive, past winter and its silly wind-- ZIP! and another ZIIIP!-- inspite of my blue coat flapping and the narrow sidewalk-- ZIP! zip, zip ZIP!-- I WILL SURVIVE!

Fuck me. I was going to fall off a bridge and die just when I had bought a nice dress and was heading home in two weeks.

Maybe I should pray, I thought.

"The Lord is my Shelter and my Refuge"

One misquoted, tiny psalmic line. I attempt thinking of the second line when--

A car pulls up. Black family van. Elderly couple in the front. The woman is frantically smiling and opens her door to ask me if I'd like a ride.

I blubber. Overwhelmed-- am I still in rhode island? Is this heaven? Did mum send you?-- and frostbitten, I scramble into the back. She tells me they went by me, and she had asked her husband to turn around because she was worried about that "young girl" out alone on the bridge. I thank her profusely, continuously, my own little mantra. Om mane padme hum. She says she has children of her own, and couldn't have let me walk it all the way back.

4 minutes later, I am across the steel monster and at the gates of my university. They drive off, I sniff and take glad muddy strides in firm, flat and large earth.

One misquoted, tiny psalmic line. Om mane padme hum.

There is a god. Hopefully, he'll be around and sniggering next time I endeavour a Mall run.

I be Burnin'

2005-11-27T11:32:00.000-08:00

midnight oil, old newspapers and rubber.

Last few weeks of work and then Im off and flyin.

Gotta love this beat, dammit.

Watch Video:

WE BE BURNIN' (Sean Paul)

Video Code provided by VideoCodeZone.Com

Eternal Return?

2005-11-19T15:10:00.000-08:00

Nietzsche in his attempt to excavate the meaning of life once used the myth of eternal return to describe what he saw as the most important reason for men-- and the odd woman, or two-- to move from being into becoming. Eternal return, in short, is the hypothetical box in which the hour-glass of life as you know it is eternally flipped over and over, so that the same joys and sorrows, the same series of experiences repeat themselves ad infinitum.

Nietzsche in his 'gay science' followed his hypothesis with a question, asking whether the reader would curse life forever on being informed of this eternal return, or thank whatever Greater Force there is for the comfort of knowing that nothing new would ever happen again.

Nietzsche meant this again, as the measure of separation between those who chose to remain and those who chose to move. The sheep and the goats. Being and Becoming.

[We will assume that this 'choosing' is a well-oiled tool, a worn coat, a known ciusin. Leave Beckett and Pascal's existential theories on choice aside. Humor me. As you have so often.]

Kundera picked up on this and figured it would be a great way to start a book. He of course, wrote The Unbearable Lightness of Being before this present day when Nietzsche is considered passé, where every second high school sudoku aspirant blubs and blogs on the man and his horsey madness.

Except Kundera chooses to assume that this 'being' and 'becoming' is not a choice, that sheep and goats together, we are condemned to be what we essentially are: either 'be'ers or those given to becoming.

I return to India on December 16th.

A thing I assumed I wouldn't be doing till 2007, and even then only in order to renew some visa, any visa before I was off junketing again.

And of course, it is a hypothesis, this eternal return bit.

However, I get this sneaking feeling that the cosmos-- that dear old bitch-- has this way constantly spinning in our hamster's wheel when she knows there's a thing we long to get away from: instead of letting us run and find our man friday and our island, she keeps us on this ferris wheel till conciously or sub-conciously we face whatever we chose to leave behind. A certain about of active reaction is required of us, the price we pay to get off the blessed hell ride.

One of course could just get used to the unchanging scenery.

I have an ADD issue that makes this impossible to do.

And so I return. No air of finality, there still remains a year and a half of a yank degree to complete.

But I return, out of choice. Because I want to be with my parents for christmas. Because I want to be with a numbered few for new year's eve. Because what I came to yankville for no longer has any use for me. Because snow isn't romantic when you're walking through it in order to reach the only meal you will get today.

And also because I want to see how much I remember, and how much I could forget.

And so, to chennai. In less than a month.

O city of grime and gregarious rice
O mixing bowl of the 100 spiced fart
You welcome me with a sun-n-fly frenzy
You whose cows in traffic are kamikaze
I fan-fare thee in my amused distaste.

Chennai! Goddess unknown and thrice disowned
They changed your name ‘coz our Commons
Still mistrusted their Lords;
The Planets had moved—thank ye gods, every 3 million of him n’ her--
(We no longer drank ‘tay’, and avoided the obsequious ‘Sir’)

What metaphors do I make for thee?
Every moment with you is a never-ending concert by the motley crue
Stories and myth are spun in every house—kept refrigerated-- under every tree
Your mangoes 36B'd, your people laughing
In sun rain and at night undrunk, still dancing

You of unfinished cement hills and defiant pot holes
You where every funeral is a flower n’ drum parade
You where post 40, women— and some men—don’t get laid.
You, where difference is distrusted, down to its very soles
How do I find poetry for you in this language you grumble at?

You hide your soul under an ancient pile of dirty linen
Your real face was washed away by a slightly high tide
Your real laughter lives on beaches, and in kaapi cups
Of 3000 year old Tamilian verse
Your ideas walk the streets shuffling, looking for the young to bless or curse.

They call you old and dry and culturally rich
I have seen you buy BMWs, and turn your river to a ditch.
The muse ups and leaves, laughing
Any pain I write will never encompass what has been said and done
I will ask the silent ones to speak, and go wander under another sun.

N.B: I am not going 'home'-- I return to see my parents. There is a difference.

Like the old bony man riding Rocinante, bearing my rusty-trusty spear, I go clip-clopping into windmills.

"It seems to me utterly clear either that you do not really know me, or I do not really know you." Cervantes, Don Quixote: Volume 1, Chapter 33; pg 218.

Mer de Noms

2005-11-15T07:28:00.000-08:00

Someone I once knew very well said that it never pays to reinvent the wheel. Thus I don't intend to gush about A perfect Circle or Keenan here, though I could and want to.

Found a great review of their first album, Mer de Noms, just now. From the heart. And finally, someone other than me has written about Orestes, one of the songs on this album that--- Geez. How else does one explain it except by saying it was on repeat for 2 weeks, and is still played every day? Its beautiful, as is Keenan.

Thank god for Maynard. He gives me a reason to stop looking for reasons.

here's that write up, full text below:

Thoughts on A Perfect Circle's
"Mer de Noms"
I know now that not all the sirens were women.

Something tells me that whoever thought up such a notion has never heard Maynard James Keenan sing. Yes, there are plenty of gorgeous voices in modern music and many of them have been compared to these mythical beings whose voices made men crazy. When Maynard James Keenan's life is over, he will be remembered as one of the best voices in hard rock music -- better than Robert Plant, better than James Hetfield (even now that he really can sing). At this point in his life, Keenan is not the kind of man that rock journalists wax lyrical about; too many of them are still intimidated by his ability to sing with such fervent honesty, to write songs that cut close to the bone -- or through the bone. His is a voice that rages and growls, but can also croon with surprising delicacy, something that has allowed songs like Tool's "Sober," "Jimmy" and so many others their heartwrenching, gutwrenching and unflinching beauty. This is no ordinary voice.

I was talking to a friend recenly while listening to the songs from A Perfect Circle's "Mer de Noms" and I said, "I swear, Maynard's voice could melt steel."

"It has," my friend replied.

To think that songwriter/guitarist Billy Howerdel originally intended to make "Mer de Noms" with a female vocalist. As beautiful as the music is, it is Keenan's voice that makes this album come alive. His is the siren's song that pulls us through the Mer de Noms -- the Sea of Names -- the songs on this album -- with such grace and sadness and purity -- with such anguish and fury and intensity. Every time I listen I am pulled ever deeper into the undertow of his voice, lost among the lyrics and tones and harmonies, maddened by how gorgeous and ecstatic it feels to be pulled in this way. I go willingly.

"Orestes" goes straight for the heart; it is the song from which the band takes its name, and its own name comes from the figure in Greek myth who is exiled after his mother, Clytemnestra, slays Agamemnon, his father. Orestes later returns, and with help from his sister Elektra, kills his mother and her lover. It is perhaps the most beautiful song Keenan (who penned the lyrics to all 12 tracks on "Mer de Noms") has ever written. It is the voice of the fetus aborted in the womb, or the grown man cutting all ties to his mother even though he recognizes they are forever entwined by the cycles of the universe, inner and outer: "Pull me into your perfect circle/One womb/One shame/One result," he sings in perfectly measured tones as his clear voice belies the horror of the situation. "I can almost hear you scream," he continues. "Give me one more medicated peaceful moment/I don't want to feel this overwhelming hostility." It speaks to Oedipus, to Freud, to Tori Amos' simultaneous acceptance and condemnation of violence in her "Waitress" and James Hetfield's struggle to let go of the memory of his mother in Metallica's "Mama Said." "Liberate this will to release us all/Gotta cut away/Clear away/Slip away and sever this/Umbilical residue/Keeping me from killing you." Its chorus is the smooth slip of the water breaking, the birthblood spilling, the body's quick descent out of the warm womb and into the cold, hardened world. Keenan's voice is just as smooth and slick, saline tongued, but its melancholy is ever-present and unfathomable. Love and hatred bundled into one tiny, pounding heart, into one perfect circle of death and rebirth, mother and son, blood and bone. I have heard this song many times now, and yet I have not lost the urge to weep uncontrollably when I listen to it.

"Magdalena" and "Judith" walk hand in hand, the two halves of religious meditation, the holy whore and the unholy martyr. "Magdalena" undulates with layers of passion and disgust, remembering the sacred prostitute and what she has become, what she makes men feel when they go to her. She dances on the pedestal, her legs wrapped around the towers of sanctity and sacrilege as men worship at her feet. "Overcome by your moving temple/Overcome by this holiest altars," Keenan sings. The guitars blare, a siren of panic in the air. "I'd sell my soul/My self esteem/One dollar at a time... for one taste of you my black Madonna." His voice becomes more distorted, unleashing a primal fury and fervor that can only exist in this place.

But "Judith" comes quickly; the other face, the other side of the coin. Here is the holy woman, the righteous woman, the self-righteous one who is ever suffering, ever denying herself the world -- and denying the truth in what she believes. "Your lord, your christ/Took all you had and left you this way/Still you prayed, never straying/Never taste of the fruit/You never thought to question why... He did it all for you." "Judith" is like falling, the descending slide of the guitar and Maynard's smooth, cut-glass crescendoes providing no place to grab hold. This is the love of the Christ figure in oneself, the love of a figurehead, the love of a man who has betrayed; all this is here. "Judith" embodies denial, self-hatred, the dichotomy of Christianity, the sacred turned inside out, the sacred become the scared, the hidden, the alone, the terrified.

"Hollow" is the dance in the ring of fire, the passion of lust outside of time; knowing what it is to be pure aflame and unashamed. But it is also the want so strong it becomes need, endless need; it could be for the love of another, the sex of another, or something more chemical. Bodily addiction. We are slaves to the flesh, inner and outer solidified in a single cry like the baby screaming for the breast. "Screaming feed me here/Fill me up again/Temporarily pacify me." The vampire in us never sleeps, and always hungers for something we think only another can give; but while we take and take again, it is temporary at best, and at worst, creates in us an ever increasing starvation of the soul. There is no give and take, only take, and take, and more take. Give me, give me.

Furthering the cause, "Thinking of You" is pure sex, the rhythm, Keenan's breath close in your ear as you listen, quick and penetrating in a way his voice has never been before. Then the breakthrough, the cascading tones of the chorus: "Sweet revelation," he sings, "sweet surrender." This is not a Sarah McLachlan tender surrender, but a complete giving of the self, and letting go, never knowing if you will see yourself again. He is the predator; you are the prey, helpless, shuddering with every drum-beat and gasp; yet you are willing, open, nevermind the consequences. There is no tomorrow; only now. With a voice like that, who wouldn't go willingly?

"Three Libras" takes us away on sheer gossamer wings of strings and subtle guitar, shimmering in the dawnlight of a new day, a magical place inside a Maxfield Parish wonderland. Keenan's voice is smooth as blood over milk; watching, wanting, waiting, wishing, wistful, bashful, resigned, hopeful and hopeless. A caress, speaking to an angel and yet to someone so ugly, so blind and hurtful as this. "I threw you the obvious to/See what occurs behind the/Eyes of a fallen angel/Eyes of a tragedy/Oh well/Apparently nothing at all." Then the guitars come, the pain, the cutting blades of reality in washes of glass, clear but slicing so deeply: "You don't see me. You don't see me at all."

"Breña" is born of the same air, winging away to a faraway land -- inside? Or elsewhere? In our own mind, or in the mind of this being called Breña? There is a solace here, however temporary; "Heal me, heal me, my dear Breña," Keenan begs. The flipside is "Sleeping Beauty," where it is in vain to heal the wounds that cut so deep, she is asleep for eternity; no prince can come to fix her with a kiss. Everything is broken, nothing is real. "Such a fool to think that I/Could wake you from your slumber /That I could actually heal you." Like in so many of these songs, the desire for the quick fix is more potent than the fulfillment of true joy; the passion that burns from within controls everything. Nothing can fix you. Nothing can make you see what you do not want to see. It is useless to resist.

There are so many pure moments on "Mer de Noms," so many inexplicable ones. The lost sounds of "Over" and the tremulous thumb piano bouncing against Keenan's lyric; the eerie, almost wordless tones of "Renholder" and its chiming, time-ticking guitars, ever descending into the depths; the self-rousing fury in "Rose" -- a deceptive name if ever there was one on this sea of names -- and the forgiveness and piety of "Thomas," offering another way to fill the hollows of the soul -- but for real this time? At least now the guidance comes from within.

"Pull me in to your perfect circle." They have, and moreso. Some will criticise this work for not being Tool, not being of that musical quality (as if that standard was anything close to fair); others will criticise it for being too much like Tool. Keenan's voice is the buoy, the lighthouse. The siren. Calling us forth, but to what end? In the sea of names, I am drowned.
~ Beth Winegarner.

S.K on ciggarettes

2005-11-12T21:55:00.000-08:00

It was night. The ceiling was calm. My face, pillowed in my hands were chill, as were my toes under the blanket. Unable to sleep, I did the only thing possible-- I closed my eyes.

The first thing I saw was the coffee cup in front of him.

“So”, he asked, folding his newspaper—“What d'you smoke?”

Gotta be kidding me. I raised an eyebrow at him.
Not both of them. Just one. You didn’t sass off before knowing what cards he held.

"Don’t be a schmuck, kid. How much older am I? Plus your lips used to be pinker than a pigeon's foot. Now look at them"

He reached forward sudden, his fingers in my face before I could react, grabbing my lower lip between his thumb and forefinger. His hardened fingertip grazed the fresh crack in my skin. I winced.

"Going back to your parents with those lips? Might as well drop to your knees and blow a choir boy as communion goes by". He sat back, his raspy laughter smelling of bitter coffee. I ran my tongue over my lip, tasting the salty fresh welt he had just run his finger over. Opening my bag to scrummage for the lip balm, I glanced at him, smiling at me across the iron-wrought table in the sun, riding the sounds that came out of the cafe with the grace of an acrobat. He'd always sit like this, I thought. On a commode or at the dentist’s: back straight, ankles folded under the chair, tortoise-palmed hands holding his knees.

"That fantasy the reason you started goin to church again?"

He grinned, and sitting forward, extended his arm across the little table, palm open. There are things about S.K that make me wonder if he's Peter Pan in disguise, just like this-- He wont say 'touché', or laugh: he will extend his hand for a five.

"Nope, just the sight of Mrs. Donizetti’s ass walking up the aisle to swallow the Host”.

He also won’t relent till I slap back, like I did now, letting my hand stay in his, feeling the deep cut lines in his weathered skin-- the shiny patch on his thumb, the sign of an old burn.

When I had asked him about that, he had brandished his fork and said that some men take love's spear in the heart-- here he pushed the three prongs against his shirt front, leaving a three-pointed marinara stain-- while others get scalded, but get off free. I wanted to tell him no one gets off free, and that there are those who walk around forever with an X stenciled over their heart. But he knows this, so I don’t say it out loud.

“And don't avoid the question".

"What do I smoke?"

"Yeah"

I took out my just cracked pack of Camel Filters, eased a white stem free and fished the battered black zippo out of my pocket.

He smiled a look of approval.

“That’s the thing I always loved about you-- Your fascination with old school. Wide gauge on purpose?”

I looked down at the smoke balanced between my thumb and forefinger.

“No. CVS didn’t have the regulars”.

It paid to be honest with S.K. He knew if you were winging it. He always knew. He nodded solemnly, shaking his shaggy head even as the wind whipped the white tufts up like waves every windy November day.

“Wide gauges are the best. Aside from the fact they give you the fullest puff. Wide gauges are like sheer thigh-high stockings and sipping good whiskey neat. Wide gauges belong to men and women who know how to undo bra hooks and belt buckles while conversing about the German elections, while dancing with the lights turned low”.

He was on a roll, again.

The next bit was in mime: a look of polite enquiry at me.
I nod. He pulls one free for himself. I hand him my zippo. He lights up. I nod, replace it in my coat pocket.

He then paused. S.K had mastered the art of monumental pauses, the timing of them—like the last roof on a house of cards. Delicate.
Inhaling deep, letting it stream out of his wide nostrils. He waited for a reaction. As always.

“How?”

“Simple. Wide gauges are sensual. An aura, like cigars, but less showy. Notice how all men and women who smoke wide gauges have square large palms, strong and short fingers. They all prefer their partners’ thighs to any other part of them. They laugh while they talk; they smile and close their eyes while they smoke. And they all give good head. Something that no 100’s smoker can do”.

“Hey. I give good head”

“Am sure you do. But you also just bought a pack of wides”.

I laughed. Out loud, in spite of the phlegm, the tourists, and his suddenly intent look, watching me as he put his cigarette out against the table-edge. I lit up again. Feeling the paper pull gently at the fresh welt on my lower lip. Recognizing the extra girth of these smokes, the way they lit up so easily. His finger in my open palm, tracing lines. The well in my mouth moistening suddenly, sweet. Gooseflesh.

Cold is the month of November, here on a sidewalk by the bay.

He smiled.

“You’re growing up”.

“This is a waste of time”

“No. This is the stuff to call your own. Cigarettes you like. The drink you order. The scent you prefer on men. The way you like your ice cream, semi-melted”.

I nodded. As usual, S.K was right. But I had to know.

“Why here, though?”

“Mm?”

“Why this table, why the white hair and the bay and the waitress?”

“Because you always liked side-walk cafes, and I haven’t been to one before”

Liar. But even before the last word was out of his mouth, the wrought-iron table, our chairs, the sea gulls all began whirling around, faster and faster, getting bigger and darker till

It was night. The ceiling was calm. My face, pillowed in my hands were chill, as were my toes under the blanket. Unable to sleep, I did the only thing possible-- I sat up and buried my face in my hands. My fingers smelt of smoke. On my tongue was the taste of bitter coffee.

post-its before departuring

2005-11-02T14:52:00.000-08:00

[Which btw are some of my favourite things, ever. Post-its, that is. Brilliant little invention. Almost as cool as the safety pin.]

post-it#1: I'm off to a model UN conference at UPENN tomorrow morning at 8:30am, in order to see what I can see. All ye cynical mumblers with the molotov cocktails: I hear ya, but wait till I get back and THEN we'll trash 'em. Only coz then I'll have the inside scoop on why anyone would want to model the UN. More on monday... and ah, yes-- I'm representing the social and economic issues of Bulgaria and Benin. Sex traffiking and other sundry matters, you know... all that frippery stuff. After all, what's sex traffiking when you have CIA moles left to blink in the flashlights, aye?
Geez.

post-it#2: Autumn has set in. Leaves are turning to gold before they rot. But only in daylight. At night they are just plain yellow. Wear gloves if you're coming to visit next week.

post-it#3: Found a delightful little podcast from Dave Riley: listen to it here, believe me its worth it. He calls it "a memo re globalisation", and its funny and honest as only an Aussi can tell it.

post-it#3: Found a live recording of Dylan's 'last thoughts on woody guthrie'. For all of those who don't "do" american folk music, Guthrie was and always will be a light. It's a beautiful piece. It gives you a reason to look beyond the plastic wrapping and take a deep breath and plunge in and get busy being real.

A thing I'm trying here, so come and keep company, would ya?

Brb.

Who wants to live forever?

2005-10-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

A question I often ask myself.

And since I was in one of my less tenacious moods today, I decided to Google my pathetic state of mind-wallowing.

[Mind wallowing is a distinct art form, btw-- Not meant for the weak of heart, or vegetarians. It involves thinking solely about your thinking. Sounds easy? Ha. Amateurs.]

Thus-- pop open firefox. Type in "self destruction".

[No caps. Heavens to Betsy, no fucking caps, please. We can all hear you.]

Voila. Page upon delicious page of possible little tools with which to shovel about in the mud even more.

First favoured link?

Narcissistic Personality Disorder: Self Love and Self Destruction.

[Expect the worst, always. As I always do. But admit it-- you love me for my honesty]

The second was a a most delicious romp through a narcissist's theme park: misanthropic site called The Self Destruction Handbook. Come see even if you're filled with cereal and Dr. Phil's tough love. The grunts and guffaws are worth it.

The third was a link on Gia. For those of you who missed it when it played on HBO, Angelina Jolie played the part of real life supermodel Gia Carangi. And for all of you who figured bulimia, designer lingerie, fake eyelashes and drinking problems were all that supermodels were made of--- Watch Gia. The woman made self destruction an art. As tragic and beautiful as it can be.

The last-- for such gets boring, even for one as self-indulgent as myself-- is a defintion:

Self-destruction (Self`-de*struc"tion) (?), n.

The destruction of one's self; self-murder; suicide. Milton.

Milton??

"they also serve who only stand and wait"...

to turn the mud over with idle toesies
tea time hopes fading like burnt rosies.
And thus they bury those who dived first
before their idling brains yawn and burst.

Give me Gia any day.

Actually, just give me my bed. Am tired. Think I'll go now.

Pete Who???

2005-10-18T16:26:00.000-07:00

So it's happened.

The man with the nose, one of the boys who slept under the flag, Pete Townsend himself-- he blogs. Here, in fact.

My first reaction was a jaw-dropped "eek!". The second reaction was to ask myself, Christ why??

My third reaction was to ask myself why I asked, at all. I realized its because part of me wondered why a famous, balding ex-rockstar would want to be part of the blogosphere. No more just ordinary people typing their weekend laundry plans. A paradigm shift, to boot!

But this made me curiouser and curiouser, because to claim there is a paradigm shift, one must assume there is a working paradigm in place.

Sure, blogs began with the unnamed mole people-- those whose names were only remembered by their mothers and their social security file. Those who communicated in C++ about gene therapy, a sovereign Iraqi state, hybrid SUV's and broadband: all things we thought would never happen.

But now-- Now everybody and their aunt blogs. Fathers recount nostalgic horror stories of initiation at hostel. 15 year olds enthusiastically type their Counter Strike captain's log. Mother's put up recipes. Goths in pink underwear describe the latest OD trip. Educators blog lesson plans. Principals post their after-hour fantasies, under sparkling nom de plumes-- things like DaRk $oR©ÉRer and Fallen_Angel.

Ahem.

And yes, there are even those old-school fogeys who honestly believe that their ideas, reflections, reactions, lyric choices [yes, we all love Led Zeppelin] and other such paltry scribblage are read-worthy, ergo blog worthy. Yes, I am one of them. The mob. The crowd. The mass.

A gentle mass, with some underlying system intricately woven: A & B will visit C's blog every wednesday. C returns the favour. Word verification jokes are exchanged [wtfru?? Really?? Tee hee] and then A,B & C will visit D's blog. D being something of a Blogga Daddy, F,G,H,I and P have already made it over. The alphabets in the middle haven't made it over yet, as they are all part of a group blog that's busy covering something important:
relief measures in Sudan, or the next American Idol.

Yes there are millions and gazillions and frupter-bupter-zadrillion blogs out there.
A blogger's born every 2 seconds.

But the one underlying feature of this entire burgeoning ant-hill has been the paring down of the blogger's identity to-- No, not anonymity. Unless self-chosen. Not anonymity, but a certain equality: parole officer and convict, judge and pimp, unheard priest and unpublished poet, we are all together subject to this system of online writing, this responding to comments. We are all bloggers. Together.

Enter rockstar bloggers. Royalty, Nobel Laureates, the Pope and Noam Chomsky. Larger than life already, in the blogosphere they are Gods. We tremble. We ring up their comments counter to 341 per post. And that's just the little leaguers, the station chai-wallahs.

The all stars, the cricket commentators, the Divine Cow Syndicate (DCS)-- we bow. We do not lift our eyes. And we cannot begin to scroll down the comments section. Our puny mortal pentiums pass out with the strain of it.

But why this need for thumbprintless one-with-the-worldness? Why blog, when you have the limo and the website and the book and the jet and the E! news interview waiting?

With all these thoughts buzzing through my brain, thus-- I consulted d.i about the matter. Threw it at his head, in fact, considering it was his ill-starred luck to be online at the precise moment I came across Townsend's blog.

Now, back story: I must explain that d.i is an ebullient Yoda, one who is perfect suited company for the above discussion. Balanced calmly between MSN and labelling post-production dvds, he stated the following [paraphrased below]:

1. Rockstars are people too.

2. Blogging is the celebration of individuality and the freedom of making that individuality apparent to the world.

[Ok so the ending on the last line was an embellishment. Mea Culpa.]

And he has a point. The core truth of the blogging paradigm is that there is no paradigm. There is no system of entry or exit: one either chooses to blog or doesn't. There is no hierarchy. Really. There are popular blogs, like there are only 2 favourite ways the world over to order your coffee.

All is Om. Prince William should start up a blog-- tales from the polo field, and rants against the paparazzi. Oh, and Pete aint the only one out there: the celebs are doing it for themselves. Moby, for one. Dave Barry for another.

Okay OKAY alright, so Pete is waaaaaayy cooler. Geez.

For the record: He blogs the chapters of the book he's working on. At least it aint a memoir. Here's chapter one. And he's making it all available for free.

Go, Pete. You'll always be my pinball wizard.

Of Looting and quibbles

2005-10-11T17:54:00.000-07:00

loot (lūt)

v., loot·ed, loot·ing, loots.

v.tr.
1. To pillage; spoil.
2. To take as spoils; steal.

v.intr.
To engage in pillaging.

[Hindi lūṭ, from Sanskrit loptram, lotram, plunder.]

--From Answers.com

I didn't know that it came from sanskrit. One of the many things I seem to be learning these days.

The other thing Im learning has to do with the media and disaster management.

I have an issue. Its possibly a quibble, a technicality which in this world of live and let die, and struggling evolution means nothing. But nonetheless:

Its about painting the picture. I have no issue with the projected numbers: the death toll is how the rest of the world understands the gravity of the situation. I have no issue with depicting slow aid or angst at the government: that's how people and authorities realize how much there is to be done. Like what a bed of nails does for a sadhu, new reports keeps us from being complacent.

I do have an issue with the usage of the term "looting". As a verb the word is used as an alternative to "pillaging", "taking spoils" and "stealing".

There has been a lot of "looting" in the news recently. Photos of many Americans with arms full of stuff they didn't swipe a card for. And much horror and clicking of tongues.

Yesterday, while reading AP and Reuter news reports that described looting in Muzzafarbad, I wanted to know about the authenticity of the usage of that word. How did those news agencies use it with such sniffy, professional ease?
So I read a few of the reports, here, here, here and here.

These news reports were culled from online editions of TOI & Ontario's Chronicle Journal, as well as Sify and arabnews.com, two online news portals.

The headlines read as follows:

"Looting breaks out in quake-struck region" *chronicle Journal)

"Looting Erupts as Quake Victims Get Frustrated Waiting for Relief" (Arab News)

"After quake, looting strikes Muzaffarabad" (Sify)

"Looting begins in quake zone" (TOI)

If you read the articles, you will see that every declaration of looting is followed by its description, which ultimately breaks down to this: starving villagers steal biscuits and bread from a tea shop, fuel from a petrol bunk as the nights are turning cold.

Stealing. Pillaging. Taking spoils, even.

Forgive me if I have a problem with the headlines. They are needlessly sensational. They portend anarchy, instead of telling the tales of little people trying to keep what remains of themselves and their families alive.

No cars, Nikes,toilet paper or exercise bikes.
Food. Firewood.

My only question: I keep hearing tales of angry people raiding relief trucks, blankets being air-dropped, dead bodies lining the streets, clashes with sticks and stones between the hungry and the shop-keepers.

Where are the tales of those who are keeping each other safe, caring for the children, guarding their relative's houses now empty of life, but still filled with belongings? Surely these are happening?

And why this black-bad luck-crow telling of looting tales?

[And btw, anyone who believes its only poor, homeless victims of natural disaster who indulge in a little pilfering, Time begs to differ: It carried a story In May 2003, of "U.N. employees scrounging for lunch" when the food workers at the U.N headquarters went on strike — "eventually, the masses stripped the cafeterias of everything, including the silverware". Ahem. Stewart Stogel has the story, here.]

Here's a look at our past experience of quakes:

In January 1999, a quake measuring 6.0 rocked Columbia. The death toll was no where near the toll today in the north-west frontier. There were reports of "looting" however. And this wasn't the only instance. There were reports of "looting" [yes, I will continue to use those quote marks, deal with it] in Aceh, in the aftermath of the tsunami.

Lets do a little exercise. Read the three following quotes:

"One looter said: "It isn't stealing. The store's totally destroyed, and nobody has a house, nobody has food. All this is to share with the people."

Several officials said they were reluctant to crack down on people who had spent more than 48 hours without food or drink.

"What can I do if people are dying of hunger?" asked one policeman"- BBC news report on the Columbia quake, Thursday, January 28, 1999.

'One group broke into a petrol station to get fuel to burn wood for cooking and warmth, while others snatched government cars and jeeps. “People are starving. They have lost all their family members, their belongings,” local resident Akram Shah told AFP. “Everything is gone, people are buried alive. Nobody is helping us to find them.” '- Azhar Masood & Huma Aamir Malik, Arab News.

'But help wasn't arriving fast enough for Indonesia's Sumatra island, where residents turned to looting to find food. "There is no help, it is each person for themselves here,'' district official Tengku Zulkarnain told el-Shinta radio from the island's devastated western coast... Red Cross official Irman Rachmat, also in Banda Aceh, said people on the island were in despair. "People are looting, but not because they are evil, but they are hungry,'' he said.'- Andi Djatmiko,Associated Press.

Circle the words and ideas common to all three quotes.

I came up with starvation, hunger, loss, despair. You?

Looting according to what I was taught in school, was what vikings did when they sailed in their longships to the British coast. Looting consisted of stealing gold from the church, horses from the stable and women from the men.

In the aftermath of Katrina, there were reports of people carrying household goods away from department stores. What made those stories incongruous and worthy of comment was that it wasn't just a pair of shoes, it was pairs of shoes.

So maybe its only because there is no Wal-Mart, Costco or Target in Muzzafarbad and Kashmir that people aren't walking away with blenders, bean bags and pillows. Maybe if there had been a damaged department store, people would've walked in and "looted".

But the fact is, there is no such store, and most people were taking food. Not treasury notes or government bonds. I say most, because Yahoo! carries a story here, in which the last lines talk about the main market area in the city of Muzzafarbad:
"Traders at the market complained that their shops had been looted by "outsiders" -- non-Kashmiris. "I ran a communications shop," said Shaheen Iqbal. "All the mobiles that were not damaged were stolen. I am left with nothing."

This was in the city of Muzzafarbad. One city. The worst-hit areas are those hilly and remote villages that even the army reaches only by air. Throwing around the word "looting" as a general descriptive makes the entire population of the north-western frontier appear given into anarchy completely. An aberration.

It is established that absolute despair and loss pushes the survival button within most people. In fact, the only record of any group of humans behaving differently when faced with a disaster of this magnitude, is a study of the Japanese who survived the earthquake in Kobe, 1995 (available here)-- I quote: "... There were no reports of looting. Many shared what little food they had. And even though many were very upset with how the Japanese government handled (or mishandled) their situation, they accepted what had taken place and resolved to begin anew". Is it because the Japanese (refer the Ronin legend) have had an ancient history of dignity and honor in the face of disaster? Is it because after being levelled at the end of WWII, they are prepared to face anything?

Perhaps. Good for the Japanese. I still have an issue with the wording of those headlines, though.

Maybe newspeople will tell me-- Hey. Its reporting. Our job is to get the news out and fast; its not worrying about being politically correct.

Get this, bub.

What you write, is what people who aren't present at the site take to be the truth. What you write defines thousands of victims of a great tragedy, who do not have the chance or immediate inclination to challenge or qualify your statement.

News reporting is about telling the truth, not selling a paper, or gaining hits on your website. You think its impossible to avoid sensationalizing the aftermath of a tragedy?

Here's the headline of a story covering the same details as the above four news reports. No derivative shmaltz. Just fact. Of all places, that article came off the Yahoo! news website, available here. It reads:

"Rain, scuffles adds to the misery in quake-hit Pakistani city "

This was the story that carried that incident of the cell-phone shop I had quoted earlier. It was the only one who carried this detail. It was the only one, inspite of that detail, which didnt use the word-- you know which one.

Words are connotative tools. One would think its important to be sure what image we're chiselling out, especially when we're telling people about neighbours they haven't met.

This is possibly a quibble, a technicality which in this world of live and let die, and struggling evolution means nothing. Or not.

You tell me.

Will someone please tell me..

2005-10-10T18:57:00.000-07:00

...If this aid worker realizes what he's doing?

Why this burden of rock and then man? Though Im sure the one who lies underneath doesn't feel it. But why this forced oneness of dust to dust?

All around us, death-
you balance on broken heart.
I help, lying still.

My first haiku. De profundis, domine.

"The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become"- Milan Kundera.

Tell the fat white man to move, please. He's stepping on my heart, and its already been glued back many times, glue chipping away.

Please

2005-10-10T18:54:00.000-07:00

Pray.
Now.

Kilgore Trout's 2BR0TB

2005-10-10T14:12:00.000-07:00

Trout's favorite formula was to describe a perfectly hideous society, not unlike his own, and then, toward the end, to suggest ways in which it could be improved. In 2BR0TB he hypothecated an America in which almost all of the work was done by machines, and the only people who could get work had three or more Ph.D's. There was a serious overpopulation problem, too.
All serious diseases had been conquered. So death was voluntary, and the government, to encourage volunteers for death, set up a purple-roofed Ethical Suicide Parlor at every major intersection, right next door to an orange-roofed Howard Johnson's. There were pretty hostesses in the parlor, and Barca-Loungers, and Muzak, and a choice of fourteen painless ways to die. The suicide parlors were busy places, because so many people felt silly and pointless, and because it was supposed to be an unselfish, patriotic thing to do, to die. The suicides also got free last meals next door.
And so on. Trout had a wonderful imagination.
One of the characters asked a death stewardess if he would go to Heaven, and she told him that of course he would. He asked if he would see God, and she said, "Certainly, honey."
And he said, "I sure hope so. I want to ask Him something I never was able to find out down here."
"What's that?" she said, strapping him in.
"What the hell are people for?"
______________________________________________________________________________
Vonnegut, Kurt. God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater(pages 20-21)
New York: November 1978; Dell Publishing Co.

سورة الزلزلة

2005-10-08T16:18:00.000-07:00

It was the night when everything is so grey that there is no different between sleeping and day.

I was awake. The howling winds coming off the bay rushed up the slope towards my dorm, cursed and yelled outside my window and then rolled on over the little pond, through the trees brittle with dead leaves.

A friend told me his brother has smsed about a tremor, just then. O Fearful Connectedness of Googletalk. We both cursed. And waited. He got to the news link first.

And even as it unfolded, the next few hours, deja vu started rolling film. The same emotions: the same checking to see if loved ones were ok. The same reading of cautious local news websites, letting the numbers flow through their fingers slow at first. Checking BBC-- updates, eyewitness reports, pictures.

Geological discussion: young fold mountains this time.

Group mails, receiving replies: some light-hearted, some in fear, some waiting, like me, for news from the places that were still ominously silent.

Receiving an IM: yes, a help blog has been started.

I have seen all this before. This has happened all before.

The Eurasian fault line runs through the area. Tremors happen here all the time. New Zealand quivered too, measuring a 3.9. Bangladesh recorded tremors at 5.4, causing high waves in the bay.

But this one was a 7.6. And the death toll projected by international news agencies is at 2000. According to the the Director of the Weather Office, its the biggest quake in 120 years. International agencies are claiming that the Pakistani Govt are remaining "eerily silent" on revealing a realistic death toll: I quote--

"But oddly enough, no one was talking about the human toll.

It was almost as if no one wanted to talk of the death and destruction that the quake could have caused

A reporter working for the state-controlled PTV said he had seen "30 to 40" dead bodies himself in the Frontier town of Mardan.

But it was never repeated".

PM Shaukat Aziz said it was too early to talk about the death toll, rescue operations were still on to pull the living from the rubble.
An appartment complex fell down. School children were crushed. Landslides have taken whole villages made of straw and mud down into ravines and a river.

The worst hit are those living in the heavily militarized zones of PoK and along the border of Kashmir. Thank god, that unlike what happened in Aceh, the military and aid workers are going in together immediately to carry out relief measures.

The relief measures in inhabited areas began immediately. One must be glad.
The actual death toll in the northern interior regions cannot be known immediately. God be with those alone and cold and scared, and with those who are trying to bring them to safety.

The red cross and red crescent groups are out in their ambulances, tending to trauma cases. Every hospital in the affected areas has patients being treated outside, for fear of another after shock.

Information rolling. Deja vu.

No tears came during the tsunami's aftermath, midst all the reading writing talking and running around that accompanied it.

In front of this lap-top, watching grainy BBC reports, I havent been able to stop. Misery because its the end of the world? PMS? nope.

Just--

people on cellphones from under the rubble, calling to say they're alright. Policemen digging with their bare hands, not bothering to wait for equipment. Children wide-eyed in terror. A group of dusty men and boys yelling and heaving a part of a concrete wall, one two three together. British citizens of Pakistani descent praying together, getting visas together, blocking phone lines together, collecting aid together, and jack straw adding a chorus to them all:

"But in this particular case, because so many people in this country - so many of my own constituents - hail from Pakistan, or their families do, of course the anxiety and the shock is even greater," he said.

"My message to them is that we're going to do - and we are doing - everything we can for British people of Pakistani heritage, number one, and two, for Pakistanis of whatever connections."

The london blasts saw tremors of a different kind run through UK's ethnically diverse population. From the pain of those accusations, from the threat of racist violence against pakistani/bangladeshi/indian citizens, to this coming together.

There hasn't been a single report, local or international, of crimes being committed in the aftermath of the quake. No looting, no murders. My friend tells me of houses lying open, all their valubles exposed, and passers by standing guard at the entrances, to keep safe the belongings of the dead and dying.

The apocalypse haven't won yet.

Midst all this loss and terror at shifting continental plates, with the many who broke their fast around the world, I give thanks. We give thanks.

Chapter 99 of the Qu'ran is named سورة الزلزلة(Az-Zalzala) which means 'The Earthquake':

When the earth is shaken with her (violent) shaking,
And the earth brings forth her burdeens,
And man says: What has befallen her?
On that day she shall tell her news,
Because your Lord had inspired her.
On that day men shall come forth in sundry bodies that they may be shown in their works.
So he who has done an atom's weight of good shall see it.
And he who has done an atom's weight of evil shall see it.

This is my version of dhikr for today: thanks be for the fact that even while in the mud, we are haunted by the stars.

In order to contribute to the Red Cross and Crescent networks active in the affected areas, please contact the following:

· In Islamabad: Khalid Kibriya, Secretary-General, Pakistan Red Crescent; Phone: +92.51.925.7404;

· In Islamabad: Asar ul-Haq, Disaster Management Officer, Pakistan Delegation; email: ifrcpk01@ifrc.org;
Phone: +92.51.925.0416; Mobile: +92.300.856.8136;

· In Delhi: Uzmat Ulla, Head of Delegation, India Delegation; email: ifrcin65@ifrc.org; Phone: +91.11.2332.4203

· In Delhi: Nina Nobel, Programme Coordinator, South Asia Regional Delegation; email: ifrcin134@ifrc.org;
Phone: +91.11.2685.8671

· In Kabul: Fatima Gailani, President, Afghanistan Red Crescent; Phone: +93.79.38.5533

· In Kabul: Vincent Toutain, Programme Coordinator, Afghanistan Delegation; email: vincent.toutain@ifrc.org;
Phone: +93.7001.8727

· In Geneva: Charles Evans, acting Head of Asia Pacific Department; email: charles.evans@ifrc.org;
Phone: +41.22.730.4455

Visit here for more details.

The Bali Bombings

2005-10-02T16:33:00.000-07:00

"The police found a total of six legs and three heads but no middle bodies, and that's the strong sign of suicide bombers"*
___________________________________________________________

lets do it.

The others nodded.

Arms adjusted slowly into velcro black vests strung with explosives. A penis, one of the younger ones, suddenly needed to go, and was let out into the garden. With a sad cold nose, it was let back in 15 seconds later. Toes gripped in dank cotton socks. Hands carefully pulled the big roomy winter jackets over the vests.

Noses sniffed. One mouth shaped words of a song in silence.

A finger was bit, a little too hard, taking away the hard skin, and opening out a tiny red well underneath. Proof of life. Bleeding, and stuffed into a pocket. Uncomplaining.

In the absence of hugs, faces were laid against faces-- In the dark, two mouths met, quick and dry, old greek priests after mass.

Heads nodded. Feet shuffled nervously, and were pushed forward by knees eager to end the waiting.

Lights passed by, cold air, cars as flashes of sound. Sounds of the dancing multitudes. Muffled bass, and more lights.

In three different streets, three different hands reached into three different pockets, and pressed down.

The heads looked around at each other, smiling and nodding over the screaming flying air and sparks that traced their arc.

Squinting, the eyes made out the waving legs below, who tangoed for three seconds before falling to the ground, exhausted.

Thump THump THUMP. They landed like potatoes in a field of cobbled stone.

I'd give it an 8.5, a mouth said.

The others nodded, rolled over, and then fell asleep.

_______________________________________________________

*Raymond Bonner & June Perlez, quoting presidential spokesman Dino Djalal, Jakarta 2 Oct, 2005. For the NYTimes.

No one’s afraid of Tobias Wolff.

2005-09-27T18:41:00.000-07:00

Nirschel [a.k.a *censored*, the president of this prestigious college] introduced the visiting writer this evening: A man named Tobias Wolff, known to all freshmen only because his book was prescribed as “common reading”, which is an endeavor to give yank kiddies a Higher Idea or Theme to think about [yes, its Bush’s idea. I checked].

He told us how Wolff had now joined a galaxy of famous writers who had visited RWU. He then named Salmon Rushdie. Name familiar yes? I thought so too. In fact, so sure was I of a resemblance, that I drew a possible portrait [like when policemen ask you to identify the bank robber from memory]. Here it is:

Right. Then Nirschel went on to describe Wolff, the man: his life, his jack-of-all-trades existence, which apparently included him being a parrot-trooper. I wondered at this new animal-- what could it possibly look like? Since the same notepad was in front of me, the fingers came up with the following:

Of course, Nirschel may have meant what he said in all good faith. I however, have my suspicions. Parrots tell fortunes. They dont jump off planes, yes? But then Nirschel is from New England. And everyone speaks...erm.. different.

The good thing is that with no further ado, the Wolff was brought on stage. What I love about living writers is that they look exactly like their pictures-- Ol' Bill Shakespeare for instance, probably in all good faith, wore a blonde toupeé. But how can he argue against a hundred paintings and postcards?

Yup. So Wolff looks exactly like this:

I was all prepared to sniff at this shining-pate-in-black-polo person. I had read his book, and though I recognized a pleasant read, I was unimpressed at the fact he called it a work of fiction and yet it sounded more like "creative non-fiction"-- a term broadly used to describe those stories where plot and characters are entirely non fictional, and where names are changed to protect privacy.

[And where there is more sex, and nods of recognition in the local grocery store than actually happened. Thats the creative part. But I digress]

In spite of all my mumbling, I sat there with pen and pad-- as you can tell-- waiting to hear what this man had to say.

He first said he applauded the common reading program, as it gave students a common language with which to communicate with during the first couple of days as freshmen.

Ahem.

The common words of communication thanks to the book were-- "Dude, did you get through that book?" "whacked, man. See ya at lunch".

Sure he was happy about common reading. His book was chosen, sales boosted, et al... but someone shut the cynic up. There were more important things he said.

Like how he wouldn't read from his novel.

Ave, Wolff.

He did however, go on to talk about the how and why of writing his book.
He opened by mentioned Frost's Road not Taken. He calmly went on to disclaim the theory that the poem is a celebration of individual choice, the riding of the rough path towards hard-worn success. He said, no-- see how Frost says 'the passing there/ had worn them really about the same'? He's saying both paths were similar. I quote Wolff: the famous last lines [I took the one less travelled by/and that has made all the difference] are "...about the lies he's going to be telling later on".

Go Wolffy.

Wolff's point was that when we--especially writers-- look back on our lives, we tend to dignify it, give it meaning beyond what it had at the time. And that's the danger in writing from one's own memory.

Wolff laid great emphasis on what he read as a child. Which consisted of books about Collies by a man named Albert Payson Terhune. Wolff told of a storyline that included a dog finding his way from Jersey to France to save his wounded master in WWII...

Ahem. No, the fingers froze in shock, nothing was doodled.

Certifiable, Wolff jokingly said. The audience half-laughed along with him, gazing at him in disbelief. He quickly brought them back by saying:

"The one great influence is the book that kept you up as a kid-- Sticking a towel underneath the door to hide the fact you were awake from your parents".

He had them back in his pocket with that one.

Wolff used to write vast amounts of stories-- Whenever his classmates needed to turn in a story, he would give them one of his. Yes, the teacher noticed once. Gave a classmate a C for one such story, a thing Wolff was told 30 years later. He said he still felt hurt because of that. When he asked why the C, his classmate told him that the teacher has said yes the story deserves an A: but it's Jack Wolff's story, not yours.

Wolff then smiled, crossed his arms and said he felt pride hearing that, even after all these years. Human, this bald pink trim man in a black polo.

He then made two interesting points about the craft:

1. Imitation is usually spoken of derogatorily. However, it is through imitation that we learn our basic skills; in the same way do we sharpen our writing skills.
He mentioned how Louis Armstrong was brilliant because of endless rehearsal and study [he pronounces it it looiss, not louie as in jungle book, which made me grin. Damn yankees]. He claimed Tolstoy, Hemingway and the collie dog man as influences.

2. He claims to infuse real life into fiction, to give it "spiritual geography"; he feels it fills out the story. Which is as good an argument as I've ever heard for the case of drawing on personal experience to write a story. He called it the melding of the personal with the imagination. He said, "scrutiny of one's life can take you to strange places". And then he quoted Eliot saying-

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

~T. S. Eliot
[Four Quarters, Little Gidding, pt. 5.]

The audience filed out, waiting for the shining head to appear in the conference room and autograph books for 30mins. I walked away, the Who bashing it out on my ear drums.

Aye, Eliot. Aye, Wolff. You go your way, and I will go mine. As we all will.

Salute the Fallen

2005-09-20T16:18:00.000-07:00

Midst the children, the families, the torn fabric of home and society... beyond the stained skirts of a god who left in a car a while ago... midst the stupidity and waste and pain--

Fakher Haider was beaten and shot in the head. One less report will get across to the world from Basra. He leaves behind a wife, three children, and a city that looks to never be peaceful again.

This is what the NYTimes had to saw about him:

A lean man with a quiet voice and a shy, curious smile, Mr. Haider was a Shiite and a member of the Tamimi tribe. Although his English was limited, he was brave and resourceful in his work with reporters. His extensive tribal connections were a great advantage in his journalistic work, both in Basra and in the marshes of southeastern Iraq.

He fought in 1991. He wrote for a newspaper. He told his wife not to worry, and gave her a number to call.

Each to his own tribe.
I'll stand and watch the sunset over where they buried him.

Fakher-
لن يذهب تضحيتك في تافهة

God is Dead

2005-09-17T12:34:00.000-07:00

The Madman.

Have you ever heard of the madman who on a bright morning lighted a lantern and ran to the market-place calling out unceasingly: "I seek God! I seek God!" As there were many people standing about who did not believe in God, he caused a great deal of amusement. Why? is he lost? said one. Has he strayed away like a child? said another. Or does he keep himself hidden? Is he afraid of us? Has he taken a sea voyage? Has he emigrated? - the people cried out laughingly, all in a hubbub.

The insane man jumped into their midst and transfixed them with his glances. "Where is God gone?" he called out. "I mean to tell you! We have killed him, you and I! We are all his murderers! But how have we done it? How were we able to drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the whole horizon? What did we do when we loosened this earth from its sun? Whither does it now move? Whither do we move? Away from all suns? Do we not dash on unceasingly? Backwards, sideways, forwards, in all directions? Is there still an above and below? Do we not stray, as through infinite nothingness? Does not empty space breathe upon us? Has it not become colder? Does not night come on continually, darker and darker? Shall we not have to light lanterns in the morning? Do we not hear the noise of the grave-diggers who are burying God? Do we not smell the divine putrefaction? - for even Gods putrify! God is dead! God remains dead! And we have killed him!

How shall we console ourselves, the most murderous of all murderers? The holiest and the mightiest that the world has hitherto possessed, has bled to death under our knife - who will wipe the blood from us? With what water could we cleanse ourselves? What lustrums, what sacred games shall we have to devise? Is not the magnitude of this deed too great for us? Shall we not ourselves have to become Gods, merely to seem worthy of it? There never was a greater event - and on account of it, all who are born after us belong to a higher history than any history hitherto!" Here the madman was silent and looked again at his hearers; they also were silent and looked at him in surprise.

At last he threw his lantern on the ground, so that it broke in pieces and was extinguished. "I come too early," he then said".

~Friedrich Nietzsche. The Gay Science (1882), sections 125 and 343.

Bush asking for a wee break.

Fund-raisers based on ethnic and racial lines [still cute that Jackson gets to hold the banner for all black musicians, but there you go. The world still loves eccentrics]

Yes, you madman who shut your mind when you first-kissed a horse in public. I awknowlege you. Gods of wooden faces and painted smiles we will become, for we have destroyed our old ones.... yet, must this be the only answer?

Must look beyond. Have to look beyond.

In a bearded man smelling of old age, I find my answer.

"We know who they are. They are the thugs of the Saddam regime who are trying to avenge their loss after losing power and the nice, affluent life they had... But history will not go back. This is our destiny, and no matter how many are killed, whether hundreds or thousands, we shall not turn back."

~Dhia Edeen Ahmadi, Shiite cleric, Baghdad.

On Why Comparing N'Orleans and Mumbai is Stupid

2005-09-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I received a forward.

Otherwise known as an annoying thing that threatens you with death if you don't forward it to at least 5 people OR promises you money from microsoft if you do.

Contrary to my modus operandi, I read through this one before deleting it.

At this point I should say I received it at a time when I was in great mental turmoil over an issue I was composing a blog-post on. That issue's posted here, but since I found the forward strangely relevant, I forwarded it to a 100 people in my address book, in order to do a little research. These people live all over the globe--many in this country, many back in India, and those in Australia, the U.K and the middle east. The email read as follows:

"nches of rain in new orleans due to hurricane
> katrina- 18
> inches of rain in mumbai (July 27th).... 37.1
> population of new orleans... 484,674
> population of mumbai.... 12,622,500
>
> deaths in new orleans within 48 hours of katrina...100
>
> deaths in mumbai within 48hours of rain.. 37.
>
> number of people to be evacuated in new orleans...
> entire city
> number of people evacuated in mumbai...10,000
>
> Cases of shooting and violence in new
> orleans...Unnumbered
> Cases of shooting and violence in mumbai.. NONE (In
> fact people went out of way to help each other)
> Time taken for US army to reach new orleans... 48hours
> Time taken for Indian army and navy to reach
> mumbai...12hours
>
> status 48hours later...new orleans is still waiting
> for relief, army and electricty
> status 48hours later..mumbai is back on its feet and
> is business is as usual
>
> USA..."world's most developed nation"
> India..."third world country"

Im not the forwarding kind. And this bit is in bad taste-- we can be better than this, surely?-- and misses one or two very crucial facts. The first being [thanks, david] that n'orleans is under sea level. Mumbai isnt. And the second, that Mumbai was hit by torrential rain, not a hurricane. Doesnt take much more than 8th grade geography to tell you those two things are very different.

But I forwarded it out coz I needed to know-- what were the reactions to such a piece going to be? Surely many miscellaneous backs were patted, in private or public. But were there any other reactions? If so, what were they?

Perspective.

The fact is, if a hurricane ever did hit Mumbai, the situation would be as bad as it is in billoxi or n'orleans. I would like to think that the Indian government would move in faster to help-- somehow, Im not too sure. God knows I never want the situation to arise where I will be forced to find out.

The fact remains however, that there were no reported cases of violence in Mumbai. And none along the south-east coast either, post 26th December. I heard of no raped women or children. I heard of no "looting" or murder. Drunken brawls, coz the men said their boats were gone, their nets destroyed, what else did they have but the arrack? No one had to patrol the refugee camps though. Anarchy translated into a few fights for food packets the first week. But then due to such generous supply, those died down quick.

But perspective again-- The fact is India survives on a network of families and friends, the kind that America does not know of. Those affected by both the mumbai rains and the tsunami found refuge in the homes of their extended families, an uncle of a cousin, friends of their father in a town nearby. And unlike America, no one in India waited for red cross to step in. Families and individuals all across the country reached out with food, information, shelter and medicines. People collected clothes. People coveyed food packets.

But housing plans kicked in only a month or so ago. Those displaced by the tsunami have been living in refugee camps, blue tents, their relatives' houses all this time. No one could put the fishermen back into the sea a month after the tsunami. No one could relocate all the families and start rebuilding lives immediately.

They wont be able to do these things in billoxi, n'orleans or any of the other cities soon, either.

The victims of Katrina are very different from the victims of the tsunami. They live in America, they have lived steeped in the hot soup of media representation, the need to join the rat race with the rest of the country and finding themselves prevented from doing so due to the bottom rung they stand on. And here, there is no belief in Karma. America unlike India, has no ancient history of society rumbling on like a well-fed elephant, all its different parts and levels working in some strange harmony. It is a country that has instead been founded on the principle of "life liberty and the persuit of happiness" only to find that they are denied all three because they dont have a sufficient bank balance.

There is no such thing as humility of position in yankville. There is such a thing as anger at being kept down, anger at being marginalized.

I'm curious about the reactions to the Katrina disaster though: In countries around the world, including the U.K, Europe and India, everyday people are being quoted saying they think its a shame America can't handle its own disasters, and has to ask Red Cross to intervene internationally to provide aid [The BBC carries the article here]
Apart from all the arguments one could have-- What makes people refuse to see the misery, and state socio-political reasons for their hard-heartedness?

Perspective.

By the way: a few of the reactions that found their way to my inbox, from those 100 people:

Here are some of them:

"This one's been doin the rounds.. kinda weird that we chose to pat our backs on this, considering all the loss of life and livelihood.. my 2 pesos!"

"and again yesterday 2 hours of rain was enough to make the city come to a standstill for some time...I am also impressed at Mumbai's ability to bounce back...but these repeated disruptions in life doesnt speak volumes abt Mumbai's infrastructure....."

"My hope is that in this 21st century we drop the post-colonial labels of first world/third world and realize that the measuring stick used to assign those labels was dictated by a few self-important nations which moving forward will no longer dominate the international scene. This is a hard thing for many in the U.S. to accept, but economic forces will force us to wake up".

" I agree to this -
Cases of shooting and violence in new
orleans...Unnumbered
Cases of shooting and violence in mumbai.. NONE (In
fact people went out of way to help each other)"

Perspective.

MC Vikram and LudaK are at it AGAIN!!!

2005-09-14T10:11:00.000-07:00

Run for your lives. And your mp3 players, because you will want this song.

How many out there have had just waaaaay WAAAAYYY too much of Gwen stefani's "hollaback girl"? Its lyrical brilliance? THANKYOU!!

The boys who made "well-come to India where the cows eat HEYYY and they drive autorickshaws everyday" famous, apparently decided they had had enough of her sh*t being bananas, too.

Thus presenting: 'Curry and Rice girl', courtesy fobbed out entertainment [click on the banner the moment you hit the site]

Go luda, go luda...

:)

Mr. vishnusami at the gates of the madras museum, on pantheon road*

2005-09-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the museum, please keep in line
only those who nicely did the guest book sign
will be allowed to see culture, thanks to very-nice me.
(& since its culture, you must be of Indian identity)

All people dead, only words here
(and pliss no drinking of wine or king-fishy beer)
tradition! Our people's heritage.
...here people? No-
Gone due to drought, war, & bad drainage.

But they dont fool me-- not bad toilets:
brain drain!! western job markets!
you want to see pictures of dance? or maybe swami trance?
we have many gods, right now all on holiday.
..You are going? but this is your culture, you must stay!!

______________________________________________________

This wrote itself in response to the worthy Mr. Soeb Fatehi's exercise on caferati, which read as follows:

'Write four lines . . .
maybe five or even six . . .
and tell us what you feel after reading the quote below.

Poet John Ciardi once asserted, "Tell me how much a nation
knows about its own language, and I will tell you how much
that nation cares about its own identity."'

Moonwalking: a pantoum for d.i*

2005-09-08T17:54:00.000-07:00

Playing together, my shadow and I,
We glide and threaten the cold sidewalk:
Something waits under this night sky.
A moon on a metal stick smiles, pulling on a white sock,

We glide and threaten the cold sidewalk.
Beyond, a bigger face shines through a taller stick.
A moon on a metal stick smiles, pulling on a white sock,
Growing swaying fingers holding it with fingers thick.

Beyond, a bigger face shines through a taller stick.
A lamp at every angle lights a night full o’ stories,
Growing swaying fingers holding it with fingers thick:
I write them with this ember-rolled pape o’ mem’ries.

A lamp at every angle lights a night full o’ stories,
We guide each other, this muse and I.
I write them with this ember-rolled pape o’ mem’ries--
Strange muse, who leaves me ash with which to lie.

We guide each other, this muse and I
Scrawled my initials yesterday: for years it will stay
Strange muse, who leaves me ash with which to lie.
Unscrubbed this wall, letters for meaning only my way.

Scrawled my initials yesterday: for years it will stay
And a smear stays on the cold stone embankment
Unscrubbed this wall, letters for meaning only my way.
Siva’s eye glowed smiling an instant

And a smear stays on the cold stone embankment
The night watches, with its lamps held high.
Siva’s eye glowed smiling an instant
Playing together, my shadow and I.

*we're studying pantoum writing in CW class. My professor is of italian-american parenthood. The pantoum is malayan. And d.i, a wonderful soul on caferati (Ryze)convinced me to try the form with original lines and rhyme. Much thanks, my friend.

The Killers say sorria como se fosse verdade

2005-09-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

I do like this band. And this song. Catchy. Pounds into your head, like a fast car ride on the freeway at 8:05pm, the only light coming from the dashboard, the ciggarette ash and the sad lights groaning by outside.

Mail me if you want it.

And lookie- found the italian translation of it.

The Killers - Smile Like You Mean It (tradução)-- Sorria como se fosse verdade

Guarde algumas expressões, você sabe que só tem uma
Mude seu jeito enquanto você é jovem
Garoto, um dia você será um homem
Ah garota, ele te ajudará a entender
Sorria como se fosse verdade
Sorria como se fosse verdade

Relembrando o pôr-do-Sol no leste
Nós perdemos a noção do tempo
Sonhos não são o que costumavam ser
Algumas coisas foram deixadas de lado

Sorria como se fosse verdade
Sorria como se fosse verdade

E alguém está chamando pelo meu nome
Do fundo do restaurante
E alguém está brincando
Na casa em que eu cresci
E alguém irá leva-la
Para as mesmas ruas que eu levei
nas mesmas ruas que eu levei

Sorria como se fosse verdade
Sorria como se fosse verdade
Sorria como se fosse verdade
Sorria como se fosse verdade

Oh no, oh no no no
Oh no, oh no no no

Dancing with Katrina

2005-09-04T13:20:00.000-07:00

I must beg forgiveness.

Swept up with word-weaving, a few days ago, I once said something about clouds and their playmate katrina. Made for delightful, aery-faery imagery.

That was till I saw the posts on this blog.

Yes I have seen destruction like this and this. It was in early january. And there was a boat on top of a building, and another one standing at 75 degrees, upright, put there by no human hand.

Go visit the blog.

And pray.

For the one thing interesting about this kali yuga is that no one is spared. Its not the stars and stripes: its poor people who are afraid of insurance, medical, the future, laundry and for their families.

Pray, god dammit. Lets all of us.

Of Internetly holding hands and reaching forth

2005-09-02T05:52:00.000-07:00

Griff will forever be right: the potential in people coming together in cyberspace to help each other in times of need or great disaster can never be underestimated.

Article in todays washington Post: here, with text below--

Good Samaritans Turn To Web to Help Victims

By Yuki Noguchi
Washington Post Staff Writer
Friday, September 2, 2005; Page D04

The Internet is spreading more than just information about Hurricane Katrina, it's giving people in the far corners of the United States the power to offer storm victims tangible help in the form of jobs and housing.

From Richmond to Alaska, Americans are filling Web logs and Internet sites with personal pledges of relief.

"My Metal Stamping/Tool & Die Company has job openings we can offer in unskilled, or skilled, position," a Chicago man posted on the popular site Craigslist, along with his name, phone number and even the offer of a studio apartment at subsidized rates.

There was an offer on Nola.com, the Web site of the New Orleans Times-Picayune newspaper, of a live-in nanny job in Staten Island, and the site had a listing from a Houston temp agency looking for information technologists. One posting called out to displaced diesel mechanics in Mississippi and Alabama: "We have a mobile home for a family of 4 or more and steady work."

The Wyndham hotel chain used Craigslist to post a notice to all its displaced employees, explaining how they'll be paid over the next 60 days and how to arrange places to stay, as well as including tips for putting children in out-of-town schools.

Some of the most personal offers are for housing, such as a posting from Renee Kapalka of Madison, Ohio.

"[W]e have a huge basement which can serve as an apt. and have lots of love to help you through these horrific times -- email me," she posted on Hurricanekatrinasurvivors.com, Craigslist and Nola.

Cash donations flowed to traditional philanthropic channels like the American Red Cross -- nearly 1 million people visited the organization's Web site on Wednesday, more than 32 times the average amount of traffic, according to consulting firm ComScore Networks Inc. But it remained unclear whether individual job and shelter offers were reaching the homeless victims stranded without phone or Internet service.

"I just feel like it's our calling," said Kapalka, who's become a news junkie, reading every detail about the hurricane. "For whatever reason, every time I see those heartfelt stories, I just get chills; I start crying," she said. After consulting with her husband and three daughters, Kapalka made her huge furnished basement available for six months "or whatever it takes."

Similar offers abounded. Nola.com, which has a "Homes Available" link on its home page, posted offers from far-flung areas: "virginia home for family"; "alaska home has room for 4"; "Small Room in Chicago burbs." Yesterday afternoon, the list of offers on that site alone grew at a rate of about one a minute.

Craigslist highlighted the list of cities affected by Katrina in red, where similar postings -- "Housing in NJ for Katrina victims" and "2br -- Free Condo For Katrina Victims Durango Colorado" -- went up throughout the day. Other sites, like Katrinahousing.org, Openyourhome.com and others offered to match housing offers with victims' families.

Some postings specified preferences of single women and children. Others offered pet housing, or cautioned against cat allergies. Some sought to house children orphaned by the hurricane. Still others reached to members of their subcommunities: "will host Irish dancer and family" and "Atlanta Gay male couple has open guest room available for other gay/lesbian single/couple in need."

But as images of the exodus out of New Orleans and of the Superdome's tired and weary circulated on the Internet yesterday, Kapalka wondered whether her offer would ever reach a needy family.

"I haven't received any responses," Kapalka said. Not a single e-mail or phone call. "Maybe only a few people can get access to it," she said, "or maybe we're just too far."

Jennifer Drake yesterday posted a free-housing offer on Nola and on Hurricanehousing.org, a site hosted by political Web site MoveOn.org. She also is talking to a Mississippi woman she knows from on an online chat site, Frugal-families.com, about taking her into her Cincinnati area home.

"My husband and I said we're willing to do whatever it took. It's a natural disaster. It could happen to anyone. I just thought: What would I want people to do for me?"

-Washington Post, Sept 2, 2005.

S.K on break-ups

2005-09-01T08:48:00.000-07:00

S.K is the best person to go to if a break-up has just happened. As when you go to him for real estate advice, he will make you a cup of black tea, with lime juice squeezed into it.

Then he will point out various trees to you-- If he doesn't know its botanical origin, he will make up a genus and tell you a story of shah jahan and mumtaz associated with it.

S,K will not ask you to tell him anything. He will talk, though.

These are some of the things he will tell you.

First, take a crap. Not a long one, a short one. Go in, lock the door, sit down, shit, flush, wipe [if you are in a country sans health faucets], flush again, pull up your pants and leave.

Immediately-- especially if you have just wiped, he will tell you-- go take a hot bath. Water down the emotion. Don't stand too long underneath it though: the heat will make you sleepy, and if you fall asleep you will wake early the next morning, with an emotional hangover, which is worse than too much Kingfisher.

S.K says dont drink when your brain is busy. This is the only time he will ever agree with your father, who said my child, drink only in happy company and with friends. S.K says smoke or masturbate to calm down. So that you can think. Dont drink and think, he announces, with a smirk, proud that he comes up with better rhymes than the traffic police department.

Write down what you think, with paper, chewed pencil or a reynolds 045. Dont type right away, especially dont type to the name/place/animal/thing you just broke with. Or rather, just broke.

He says, ask-- did you start the taking apart of the jigsaw, did you smash the first coconut? In which case, S.K says, understand that you had good reason. Id swings the hammer knowingly, though Ego might dither. However, if you have second thoughts about the cookie-crumbling, then you have 24 hours within which to re-establish communication. Post 24 hours, doom will settle. Like the morning after pill, like a tetanus shot, 24 hours is all you get to glue things back together.

He will then pour more tea. Break ups, like house-hunting, tend to loosen the bowels, he says. Black tea and lime tightens them back.

Read Dostoevsky, he says. He will then hand you an old penguin paperback edition of 'Crime & Punishment' if you dont have one yourself.

Then, depending on who you are, S.K will draw a birthchart and show you if
a) you are meant to be in love and this is just a temporary mishap and someone will be here soon or

b) You were never meant to make dinner for two, only watch crows at sunset and go for walks in the rain, with a newspaper to cover your head.

S.K doesn't chickensoup.

He draws the stars as they are.

Write, he says. Write lots. Write till a painful red bump develops on the finger your pen rests on. Then, go to sleep.

And do not dream.

My first day of classes

2005-08-31T14:03:00.000-07:00

On my first day of classes, the washington post said that 53% of the American public dissaproved of Bush.

On my first day of classes, the mayor of one of the cities in the deep south hit by Katrina called the hurricane 'our tsunami'.

On my first day of classes, the news said that China would close 7,000 coal mines, that iraq was more expensive than vietnam, that Mikhail Khodorkovsky wants to stand for parliament, that India is the biggest buyer of arms among developing countries.

Of course its more expensive, idiot. Taxes, not to forget GNP.

On my first day of classes, a tree branch fell on a power cable and cut off power to this university for 3 hours. Professors cancelled classes, everything shut down, and the cafeteria started serving crushed ice in paper cups. Harsh winds and grey hippo-clouds ripped across campus, nicking skin with dead leaves and sweeping ciggarette buds into the middle of the street.

On my first day of classes, I got to meet my professors.

I need to introduce you to one especially, the professor who teaches creative writing 350.01, writers reading poetry.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Michael Gizzi.

Michael Gizzi writes poetry. He studied at Brown, taught in many places, was a tree doctor, and now teaches me. What? Am not quite sure. Blue eyes in tanned face looked whimsically out on a class that expected to be told his grading policy.

Instead, he asked everyone to say a few words about themselves.

Here, I must follow a tangent: Intros can kill. Some develop a verbal tag they lisp out whenever asked: like hard-boiled eggs and maggie noodles, they never go wrong.

Some say close to nothing: very little past a name.

Some tell you where they are from and what they have done.

Intros kill, and feel like your pants are too tight and there's a dog staring at your crotch, only because you are called to account for yourself. And whether in front of a creative writing professor, Anubis or St. Paul, it will forever be... a struggle.

I like it that way. God save me from name tags. Like those people on Hollywood Squares who say:

"Hi, My name is Jane, Im a certified life guard, I live in santa cruz and on weekends I take my kids to the park and teach them how to play frisbee".

Hold up. And then??

The agony lies in wondering whether you say too much, or too little.

Introduce yourself, he said. Do you like poetry? What have you read, he asked.

I sat there, within me welled up words of YES poetry, pough-hit-ree, poetry like a bird and a bee, damn yes fuck yeah I must and I will I feel therefore I am, Carlos speaking red wheelbarrow, Neruda speaking love. An albatross, a kingdom, a sonnet for a horse with no name that would run free into xanadu, free into snow lit only by green eyed thought sparkling behind glass, watching waiting, and oh yes Eliot ELIOT FOREVER down by riversides and balding patches and yes, I have felt sorry for myself and I dont dare, I dont dare to disturb anything and can you teach me this, can you teach me how to live and love and die even, if that was needed.

He looked at me in invitation and I said-

"Hi, Im priyanka. I come from India, which is far away. I already have a major in English Lit, and now am double majoring and minoring in poli sci. I love poetry because only poetry could make people write words in lyric, words about spring and apes that can write and put it inside buses in Portland for people to read. Portland, Oregon. Not Portland, Maine.I am passionate about poetry, as much as I am passionate about cheesecake. I read I write I love, btw, Eliot, Pound, Seaney, Plath, Hughes and much more. Yup. Thats about it".

I forgot about Neruda and Mcgough and Seth and Lorca.

But such is the way with intros. There's always something you dont say.

Gizzi is something I will watch. A poet who's a tree doctor. His new anthology, 'No Both', is reviewed here

And here's something he wrote that I felt felt its way in here, crouching against the walls:

"Only last night because I'm always growing a proboscis I said "Tomorrow I'll begin this new notebook with the words I surrender." Like I should have a scarlet brand on my lip in lieu of a moustache that reads "He begins on the morrow" or tattooed to my big toe "He died with his rue on." But even that's a scarlet ruse. No wonder I suffer such trapezoidal travel anxiety that to put it wildly I get this visual visceral hallucination that my chest extends six feet straight out like an amphetamine puffed mourning dove. Might have something to do with flight. What's that, Doctor Pancoat, my little fraidy cat flights from change?

I always have a sense of camaraderie whenever I hear women especially remark quite rightly "Men? -yes, they're terrified of change." And yet if I'm going to make a clean stab at the brisket of it the truth best be careful not to piss off the mark and traffic only in a bloodbath of my own shirttail shortcomings trailing a Roman nosebleed -them I know exceedingly well. After all I'm not the Desquamated Professor of Grey Torpor for nothing.

But I desire a chair not a pitypot in perpetuity. I want a palpable hit. But I regress. I'm back kneeling on bitter rice in the coldstone circus church of misbehaving bent youth, slurring three-square Marys, faking a good Act of Conniption flush in front of the Light-a-Candle Concession, a terraced altar of carmine-colored jellyglasses flickering their translucent booboos of Jesus. Tongues of fire for hire? Drop the geetus in the leadbox and indulge your poor dead Pop with a night on the town in Limbo. A plaque on your house! Sister Tetchy scoring my penance ringside humphing siroccos through the bat wings on her Shroud of Turin.

"A beating a day keeps the titters away " peel the Bells of Saint Scary. Hang it all, Buster Brown, but we attended a condemned school. No wonder everyone I see points the fingers in their faces at me. Some can't accept a little hotsoup kitchen less it's been divined by their own dowsers, whence this Christer's scupper of cripes. You can imagine where this manic ringworm road goes. Flatline seems to be status quo and yet if you're a frantic mountaineer-like Mindanao diver you quiver wishbone in scabbard a being so bi-polar you either consign yourself to the blasted blame-box or turn your entirely flayed caul of pain on the world's largesse.

You know what the guy who ate the school said to me? "I thought it was Prince of Gluttony Day." A telltale sign of instability responsible for many memorable events. Why can't one have fun in his/her own home? But in our misty roses we forget."
-'Only last night' No Both, Gizzi.

And the bad news is...

2005-08-30T16:22:00.000-07:00

...that hurricane Katrina is ripping up the south-west coast, the magnitude of which yankville hasn't seen in over half a century.

Poor muggles. See how they run, float, drown and die.

It's an interesting thing about kali yuga: no longer is it just parts of the world coming under fire or getting doused n' soused. The nation most insensitive to world issues, particularly world issues relating to weather and pollution, is learning a heavy lesson.

As are the financial markets. Oil gurus are going into a tizzy, consumers whinny in fear as barrel prices rise to close to $80 a unit.

The good news is...

2005-08-30T15:49:00.000-07:00

... that my roomie is not a serial killer, nor is she an obsessive follower of reality tv shows. She has a car, bought me tooth-paste, took me shopping, and... did I mention she has a car?

Hurricane Katrina hasn't reached this far north on the coast: however, it did spell grey hippo-like clouds that crushed the horizon and my roomie's car's windshield this afternoon, bringing rain and sweatshirts out under human eyes. A comfort after the heated humidity of the past few days.

I now am the proud owner of a plasma ball, a joyous creation that looks like this:

I also have my own table lamp, a morbidly--deliciously so-- black comforter and a laundry basket, wearing the same livery.

In short-- territory has been marked. Tribe members have been ascertained. And the hunt, with tomorrow's classes, will begin.

Got Bawls?

2005-08-30T15:38:00.000-07:00

The guarana berry is native to the Amazonian forest, and is known for its potent caffeine levels. An American college student a while back wondered what it would be like to have an alternative to coffee and coke that still had that delicious caffeine kick , but none of those wussy associates, milk or sugar.

And then there was Bawls.

Bawls beats red bull and gatorade hollow, simply because of its subtle flavour and indubitably cool appearance.

Why I love Bawls? None of that sickening aftertaste that coffee and coke bring, no need to gulp h2o, and it doesnt zombie your breath.

Nothing beats Bawls. Unless its a closed room, lit with UV light, depeche mode playing with the bass kicked in full, and TWO ice-cold bottles of... yeah you guessed it:

Back from limbo

2005-08-28T13:34:00.000-07:00

The problem with the east coast is that its very different from the west coast. This is an issue if you're used to the latter, and expect everything to be that open and, to put it in the vernacular, "chilled out".

I have moved, my compadres, to a place named Roger Williams University: its a place where all the women [read girls] are blonde or streaked, wear cut off denim skirts and douse themselves in fruit scents and spray on sunscreen. Its a place where all the men [read boys]imagine themselves as sk8er bois or ex members of limp bizkit. Everyone listens to hip-hop. Everyone wants to drive.

This is the case of course, only because till date only the freshmen are on campus. The adults-- or bad imitations there of-- are yet to arrive.

I, and the other designated PLUS scholarship students have arrived, though. Slotted as transfer students, we have been avoided and have been spoken slowly to. I don't lay the entire blame of the latter act only on pubescent RWU students and new england profs who've eaten fish for too long: its an American past-time, to speak slowly to those of obviously foreign origins.

The island-- smallest state in yankville, do note-- is..erm... small. Surrounded by water. Instead of crows, it has sea gulls: big white birds that crap paint bucket loads of white guano, and scream through the day and evening. Instead of hills and pine trees, it has flat land and scrub.

Since this university was founded in the fifties, all its buildings look like sad grey matchboxes that Waters and Gilmour would've written B-sides on.

The library......was distinctly built in the early 90's.

Yes. I am sniffy, and I am unhappy.

My room is painted the colour of the green bile that belongs in a junkie's gut. There is an airconditioning vent that was created with the malevolent intent to freeze every foreign student to death.

My professors seem goodish though: I will be double majoring, in creative writing and theatre, and minoring in poli sci with a concentration in international relations.

*huge grin*

its like your name tag when you were in kindergarden. You feel strangely proud of this new title. American kiddies take 4 years to do what Im going to be doing-- inshallah-- in two years.

So Im sure good things will happen. Theres to be a semester for theatre, in London, if the visa god allows such. There are to be summer courses, and winter holidays. There are to be movie screenings, papers, club nights, turning 21, a roomate I haven't met yet, trips to new york, and the usual magic bag of life.

I miss portland though. Nothing can take that away, yet. I miss hookah on the grass, professors I knew better than family members, trees I called by name, a library that made me feel I was in a place of learning worthy of me [you already know how presumptuous I am, so why the suprise?, and classrooms which carry hot chocolate stains and state-of-the-art energy saving design.

I miss cyrus partovi's foreign policy classes. I miss us cooking at 2:00am in the Akin kitchen. I miss midnight ciggarette walks. Sitting by the reflection pool. The Stones rocking out of Laura's room over her record player, through her windows.

Only 7 days of moping allowed though: one must choose life, with all its amusing dice-fixing.

Speaking of choosing life... how many of us have seen train-spotting? Found the screen play of it sometime today. A declared favourite: cuts, dialogue, metaphors... perfect slime. Perfect.

In the words of Renton, then--

"So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's going to change, I'm going to change. This is the last of this sort of thing. I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you: the job, the family, the fucking big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisurewear, luggage, three-piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, to the day you die".

World according to S.K

2005-08-22T16:24:00.000-07:00

“There can be no going away. No leaving.
Just you can take a walk”- S.K

There are airplanes overhead in every sky. Like there are remnants of old milk stains in every kitchen.

Japan, Romania, Reunion Island, Canada, Laos and even, yes even in this funny far away little country called U.S.A, people worry about whether their underwear is smelly, and whether their neighbor’s dog will come sniff their crotch and whine.

Feet belonging to everyone below 45, if wrapped in socks and shoes for more than 10 hours, will need washing before airing. Especially if you want to make a good impression on the person watching TV with you. Everyone knows this.

Everyone likes playing with a stick if they are alone. Some tie things to it, others break it, others drag it along the ground, drawing circles or lines. Some like throwing it and some like keeping it. S.K likes to find a stick with a v-formation at the end, and then tie grass around the tip of the v so that there is room, just enough, to hold a cigarette there.

Everyone clears their throat before talking to someone they want to impress. Smart ones do it in the elevator so they aren’t noticed.

Everyone, when cold, sticks both hands between their thighs when trying to sleep. The fat ones go to sleep easier.

Everyone touches the walls of the house they used to live in for a long time, when they return to see it after many years.

Everyone burps after their third sip of Pepsi.

Indians are smart because we dance in big groups, so no one can laugh at the way your legs move. Also, you can hug the person you want to and its hard for your aunt to see. Indians are smart about dancing, because the music is loud and happy, and that makes people loud and happy. Everyone should dance like an Indian.

Everyone should have a terrace from which they can see their neighbors and same-backwards, as S.K says. [S.K doesn't like saying “vice-versa”. Like “stuff” and “ok” he thinks “vice-versa” makes people lazy. He says English is for twisting like chapatti dough and nose boogers. So you can make shapes out of them.]
Yes. They should be able to see their neighbors and the same backwards, so that everyone knows about who has what disease, who fucked who’s cousin, and who wont marry who because of the same. They will know how much money the daddy is making, and what the mummy is doing to lose fat. [S.K never likes to say lose “weight”. He says if people lose “weight” they will start to fly and there will be more airplane accidents than those on train-tracks on the ground]
They will know what t.v shows their neighbour watches, and whether they like Maggie noodles for breakfast. In this way, S.K says 2 good things will happen:
1) they can be good witnesses in a court case concerning their neighbour
2) When they meet in the street or at parties, no one will pass secret messages about secret recipes and affairs, but all will sit and talk about t.v shows, politics and other such important day to day affairs.

Terraces are also good for sitting and thinking and walking and playing hop-squares. [S.K doesn’t call it hop-scotch. He says there is no scotch to drink and we are too young to drink anyway.] He does say terraces are good for kissing, also. There would be happier people and more peaceful people in the world today if only there was more kissing.
Everyone going to their terrace at 6:30pm, and kissing their neighbour, every neighbour—whether old, pimply, bearded, in a house coat or in pigtails.

Everyone should be happy. He said this sitting on the terrace wall, dangling his legs and throws bits of stick at the crows swinging on the loooooooooooooooooooooooooooong black cable t.v wire that stretched from my house to the house of a girl I know, 2 streets away. The crows called him names. He laughed at them, and they moved over, grumbling, towards the end of the wire far away from him. They sat there, black bits of lead against the setting-sun sky, bearded with the tops of trees.

S.K knows many things. He said he wants to live in a boat one day.

Of broken toenails and airports I deslike

2005-08-21T10:58:00.000-07:00

There is something wrong with the fact of my posting now.

The time's off. So is the fact that Im in front of a computer, in Lewis & Clark.

The flight I was supposed to be on is well on its way to Providence, Rhode Island. And I can only ask myself what providence or ill karma it was that has been responsible for the past 12 hours.

The suitcases wouldnt close. One because it is temperamental, and the other because some wise people in NY decided to extract cds from my case without asking for the key first. Then?

Then, the combination was forgotten. New suitcases bought-- Old ones opened by rolling them down the stairs, a feat which brought that fleeting sense human victory over the elements, and a soft rain of toothbrushes, a copy of Hawking's brief history and fresh white unmentionables over the landing.

New cases packed... small toe nail unsurgically removed due to an evil bump against the leg of a bed from hell. Curses and medical solutions muttered... more clothes stuffed into waiting gaping holes.

Airport departed for at 4:15am. One km down the road, I realize I had left my ipod back in the dorm.

Shame of a mother for a forgotten toddler... Humayun [or was it jahangir?]'s Deccan albatross. The one material thing that accompanies me everywhere, forgotten? Another fellow passenger had an earlier flight which could be missed.

Thus note the irony: Us two wanderers travelling to Rhode Island checked in, and waited at the wrong point for said ipod to return on the second airport trip of the day. Sun rose, cold and chilly like a hostess who doesnt care for your choice of footwear for her soiree... Error rectified, our death-rattle moments before departure and thus-spelled closed gates were eaten by airport security.

They have a theory on domestic flights. If you have a state i.d, use it. Don't show them your passport, if you're not white and are from the 'Other' hemisphere. That means your bags will be checked.

Know what security check is like inside America?

myth: its the worst at Kennedy international airport, in NYC.

Shattering thereof: Bollocks. Kennedy airport staff do not pretend security check is a chapter in Mother Goose. They do their job, then move you on. And stop you only if you speak in an aggressively different language or if you come from country belonging to a list known for... excitement.

At security here, you take off your shoes, your jacket, your belt, your toupe. This has been done before.
You then wait while people address you with "buddy" or "honey" depending on your obvious physical preference and gender preference, whichever is the more obvious.

You walk through an x-ray boothand then are told to stand on the outline of two footprints, watching some security pig go through the... erm.. white unmentionables. Hands parallel to floor, palms facing upwards. Electro-magnetic device used to discover all the rivets on my jeans.

Of course this is common to the country. But what bugged me was the sesame street facade, the "how are ya? hands up straight please" bit.

Dont act like you're giving me a lollipop, bub. You just made me miss my plane. Made Zubeida miss it too. And you dont apologize: you feel justified in this ordering of the sheep ranks.

PDX is a great airport till security. Gift shopping, food... Charles de Gaulle has no atmosphere at all: there, escalators dont work, the huge glass walls make sure the inside feels as freezy as the outside. Grey paint peels of the celing, and the walls are the white of a sanotorium.In the midst of this stark sparsness, there is the cheese and wine boutique... christian dior...Saint Laurent. There are people, eating walking laughing taling. There are lines, and certain people are asked to take their shoes off.

Im not sure I like airport atmosphere.

2005-08-19T18:46:00.000-07:00

Paparazzi pigeons caught the blue goblin at what she does every full moon night. (Adobe, today 2005)

Alternate and Lovin' It

2005-08-17T18:04:00.000-07:00

Two new links up on the right-

Websites of Tool and A perfect Circle. Whats common to both is Maynard being dual frontman. And also, good graphic work.

Especially on the Perfect Circle website: go there, and keep clicking on the perfect circle logo right on top: the poster on the front page keeps changing. Made in the style of the 'Uncle Sam wants you' posters of the late 1800's uptil the 1960's, these pieces of pop-art are almost as tongue-in-cheek as Maynard's lyrics.

In short-- Guys, check 'em out.

smorgasboard

2005-08-13T22:29:00.000-07:00

Gotta love them Danes.

Before I tell you about cali-for-nai-aye, since collecting the saga and the pictures together is still underway.... let me tell you 'bout the day a few of us girls decided to invade the college cafeteria's kitchen, and make dinner for about 15 people.

The dinner was Indian. Why?

One, 'cause Ben and I missed that shameless extravagance of flavour and oil, and two-- Because we'd made friends with a wonderful Mr. Kumar who runs an Indian grocery store down on Hawthorne, and who had convinced us to buy those wonderful inventions: the foiled-n'-boxed instant curry mixes.

Dinner was great. We had lahori style fish fry [ha, bet those pacific north-western Cod didn't know what hit 'em].. shahi chicken gravy, a potato gravy that was more Jordanian than Indian [hey, Adla makes it well, and it went with the chappatis, okay?? sheesh]panneer butter masala, chappatis [courtesy Ben], gulab jamuns [courtesy Haldirams] and a decadent pulao that looked like this:

Our fellow international students loved the food. A few of the people who work at the Bon [short for Bon Appetit, the catering company that runs the cafeteria] ate as well, and said it was the best Indian food they had eaten in a long time. Hurrah for packed masalas.

Was worth it though, working in a kitchen that's built to cook for 1,500 people at one time. Ask the guy for a cup of mushrooms, and I get 3 kgs. Whooo. Whatta rush.

In short, it was great-- And here's our smiley, shiney faces to prove it.

And so it goes...

2005-08-12T21:09:00.000-07:00

The end was near, it came and now receeds, slowly.

Our summer session at Lewis & Clark college, Portland Oregon is done with. And we even have certificates and t-shirts to prove it.

There was a picnic to mark the event. The hamburgers were the best part... don't think we're not loving every minute of it based on this picture:

It's just that Bilal, Laura and I happen to be camera-shy around meal times. Fear of there being a record, and such.

Our professors also invited our "friendship families" to munch with us. Now, Im still not quite sure about this concept. See, I understand it if you're an international student trying to make it on your own in an alien land, with no program to act as a safety net. But so be it-- we were all assigned families who were supposed to be..erm.. friendly, and take us out on cultural experience-type thinggies.

Hmm.

Since most of them were old and church-going, it is easy to see how we cultural experienced without their reverential companionship. But it was nice of them to show up. Here we all are, in a picture that I find ludicrous, and pathos-tinged at the same time.

Why? Only because we will never see them ever again, and you will never know their names and thats ok. Also, they weren't really a family to any of us, though they did quite kindly ask how many languages we spoke and whether we liked yank food. Some were really nice though.

My family didn't show up.

Ah, you smirk.

But believe me, I did nothing to frighten the benevolent couple. It didn't matter a bit though. I was grateful for the extra food.

See, the thing is-- we already were a family.

And though that will fade [not the picture, thanks to online kodak prints, but the bond...sigh. Slow today, yes?]... its ok. We be real, ornery, and international. Nothing makes for a better family picture.

Going Camp

2005-08-12T20:46:00.000-07:00

Pictures from that trip I grumbled about, a while back. Beautiful, ethereal place, the Oregonian coast. Cold, with pine trees along salt water: A thing that Im not used to. Which ended up causing most of us to congregate around this:

Nice, warm fire though. I learnt the art of balancing kindling, and toasting marshmellows thanks to it.

Inspite of the cold however, I can't regret the experience. The place was just so serenely unlike any beach I had ever seen... the water came in murmuring and gentle, no noisy crashing on the shore. Cold, and gently merciless-- we were numb in under a minute-- it came in, swishing like tentacles and hands... here's rama and adla walking through it:

The last morning saw me happy to leave though:

Ahem. But that's only because there are parts of me that still hold onto physical comfort as if life depended on it. Which, if you are as much of a softie as I am in most cases, DOES depend on it.

Had my moments of going beyond physical being and creating personal stories I will tell young 'uns who are innocent enough and children-enough, to ask about... like me realizing what was in King Canut's mind when he dared the waves:

... I also stayed away from climbing the pier with the others [so I get anti-social. Talk to my lawyer, geez], and thus got to experience the exact weather change that occurs on north-western beaches on this continent...

Yes, that is me. Look hard enough, and you can see the red mop.

The sun set like a lazy beautiful fat woman nestling down for the night... But when she slept, all that was left was the kind of cold greyness that Osiris died in. No, really. All changed... except the waters icyness. No welcoming hands of an irish sea goddess... all that was left was the fog, and the reminder of the hour at which mortals should return to their fires..

...and their tents. Ours looked like this:

Yes, the ever faithful Ben came with the tent.

Cold and boot camp-like... I still struggle to describe some of the beauty there...

Cold is the beach of Oregon. Beautiful is the beach of Oregon.

You should go see it some time.

Winged Seed

2005-08-12T20:13:00.000-07:00

There is this book by that *points to the title* name, written by a young man named Li Young Lee. It found me when I was in the 7th grade... a long time ago, and a strange time to read this remarkably lyrical and plotless work.

The title stuck with me though... the image being as powerful as it is. A single grain-like seed, suspended by the finest of strands, held thrown carried loved and discarded by the wind. Whether it germinates into something more-- palpable, I think is the word-- or not, depends on nothing at all. It could happen, it could not. All that really "is" about a winged seed is the fact that it has that flight, that no earthy apple or tamarind seed could have.

Winged seeds are a common sight here... diaphanous, lit-by-the-sun tendrils, wafting over the light breeze, just missing your fingers, tumbling over grass.

I just returned from California, on a road-trip that just begs blogging. 25 hours of cities and lights across Tupac's state in a bus that is wrongly named "grey hound". Grey, yes. Hound's the misnomer though. In my mind, aided by the Baskervilles tale, I imagine a lean-limbed, fast-moving even lethal, dog. This bus was anything but the above. Well, maybe lethal. But that's only because my fellow passengers, especially on the Oakland-Sacremento-San Jose stretch looked like those who were on parole for something I wouldn't tell mum about. Anyway.

My point is, I returned a few hours ago to the cool, grey, welcoming arms of this city I love, imagining the comfort of my room with a certain tender joy.

Only to realize that today was the day that I vacate, so that my room can be spring-cleaned and un-priyankaed for some preppie kid to use, since the Fall semester begins in a few days, and my summer session ended a week ago.

It took hours to leave. Not because there was that much packing to do. Heart-wrenching, taking down the Woolf poster, moving the suitcases, hauling the Mac down the hallway to Ben's room, where I will be bunking this last week in Portland. Heart-wrenching, seeing a room as bare as I first saw it.

Of course this was not permanent. Of course I knew I'd leave in three months time. Just that no one told me how attached I'd get to this campus, and to this room, or how fast those 3 months would pass.

Boxed and cleaned out, I left the dorm an hour ago to walk the ultramarine blues away. Accompanied by the faithful Camels and my ipod.

It was still good to be back, because anything is better than a grey elephant... erm.. hound.

Isn't the same though. Whether I like it or not, I cannot ignore the fact that now is not the time to find roots, slip on chappals and wander out onto the lawn for ages, and drowsily wonder whether I should carve my name in the stone wall by the reflecting pool.

Traveller, wanderer I am. And there have been many before me, ones that have even raised that identity to a level of glory.

I always wanted to be marco polo. Hsüan Tsang seemed the coolest monk in the word in history class.

But at some point, these guys pulled off their boots, sighed and sipped their soup, murmuring "home sweet home" in italian and chinese respectively.

I suppose its not my time yet.

Ben and I-- my dearest Sancho Panza. How I will miss her. Some, yes. True that all in life moves on and suffers short-term memory but... some, yes-- were talking about it before I came to this darkened, almost-closing computer lab. And came to about the same conclusion.

Its interesting how this scholarship pulled people together who at some level felt the same: the fact that there can be no rooted-shooted comfort right now. Not at this time in life.

Seeds on the wind, flying god knows where. Damn, it was hot in Cali. Things grew, nonetheless, squinting against the sun and dryness.

Next stop, Rhode Island. And from there on, even during the two years, even that Laughing, Blue-eyed, Lounging being above and around me does not know where the wind will blow.

If it must be that way, then--

Here's to rambling on, and singing my song.
And by whichever god there is, they all better listen good, coz bloody hell...this flying solo can get grit in not just your eye, sometimes.

1 liter (L) = 1000 milliliters (mL) = 1 kg water

2005-08-02T15:40:00.000-07:00

As I have been trying to explain to my dyslexic mind over the past 4 days. Here in Oregon, my ability to assess volume seems to have further disintegrated.

I have been trying to comprehend the amount of water in and around mumbai. Everyone's been covering it, if you look hard enough.
And while this personal struggle with numbers carries on, I also find myself constantly asking myself two questions:

1) How are the people faring?

2)Why is so little being done towards containing the destruction by those responsible?

I then realize the problems associated with the phrase, "those responsible". Its mumbai, yaar. Who IS responsible?

I have a staunch belief in the power of the people. This belief was upheld by news I received of bloggers in mumbai and those concerned who had gotten together and set up help-blogs to share information, and tell people the stories that apparently aren't newsworthy enough to be printed so that aid can be redirected sooner. Cloudburst Mumbai is one of the blogs I refer to. The other can be found at Mumbai Help.

As I said, my staunch belief has been vindicated. And not just by these blogs, but by news of forwards and smses, and of people reaching out and helping each other in this city of dreams and dirt. The above article appeared in the BBC online edition and tells the tale of Anjali Krishnan, an advertising exec, who was caught in the rainstorm:

"... We crossed dark homes, and shops and police stations. We met a lot of friendly firemen trying to keep order, but not a single policeman on the way.Soon, it became a long, happy, wet trek as can only happen in Mumbai. Our fellow-travellers, boys and girls, men and women, young and old, chanted hymns, sang songs, cracked jokes...
Others cracked the night's best silly jokes - whenever they would come across a car floating in the middle of the road, they would shout: "No parking! No parking please! This is a traffic offence!"...
"Don't feel ashamed, madam. Hold my hand. Bindaas pakro (Hold me coolly)," said a young man in the queue lending a helping hand to a girl...I saw another man walking with a 70-year-old father perched on his shoulders. My rain girls sorority had now expanded to a few hundred people wading through the street.
In the middle, one of them actually met her husband wading through the night, and joined him happily... The trek was an eye-opener, a testimony to the indomitable spirit of the city's people.
Mumbaites have stopped expecting anything from the politicians who have never cared for them.
So when the city turned into a dangerous waterworld, they turned to each other and helped them out of the crisis..."

Read the full article here

Aye, am moved. Inspite of the death toll, inspite of the industry being hit, call-centres doused, Bollywood left unromantically rain-drenched and the fact that though the armed forces have finally been given the green signal to go in and start work on the clean-up, that go-ahead could've come sooner... inspite of all this-- I have hope.

Hope.

Hope?
Hope of what, that mumbai will pull through?

Hell yeah. This is after all, not the first time that rains have lashed the city and taken lives and belongings in its path down to the sea. In July 2000, 60 lives were lost in the city-- The report also states that thousands were evacuated. The area affected was a mumbai suburb along the Vakola and the Mithi rivers. Of course, it was a slum area. People dried their hands off on a towel, threw out the trash, and life resumed, as it always does.

But why, if Mumbai has a history of easily-filled water reservoirs and bad drainage systems, has nothing been done all this time to prevent such chaos from occuring?

UNICEF has pledged aid in the form of ORS and chlorine tablets to start the process of cleaning the drinking water. The WHO are helping out with the coordination of rehabillitation. As earlier mentioned, the armef forces have finally moved in. The mumbai police are holding a food and medical supply distribution camp tomorrow. The Red Cross and good old Aid Indiahave kicked in at high gear, doing what they do best: coordination and distribution.

Work has begun, but it looks like its going to take one god-almighty mother of a mop to clean this leak up.

Tiny Q though-- Where's the state government, the municipal authorities, the politicos?

I must admit-- I didn't know much about Vilasrao Deshmukh or his cronies. So I ran a little background check. Pretty portfolios, but he's being quoted on major news sites saying that there has been a "delay" in relief work.

In short, the poor bugger's been caught unprepared. Apparently he talked to Rediff.com the other day-

""Please understand this is a natural calamity," he said. "Who would have expected such rain?"

He's fighting off the hornets. And being faithfully quoted by the BBC:

"We will look into the urban development issue, but this is not the time to do it. Our priority now is rescue, relief and rehabilitation"

Those stiff upper-lipped boys, not content with that, go and find Mr. Prahlad Khakkar(oye bubbly!!) and give him the same treatment:

"We just about manage to keep our noses ahead of disaster every year because the authorities build just about the bare minimum infrastructure"

Touche, with an accent on the last e.

No one could've forseen the volume of water, Mr. Deshmukh says. Hmm. But Mr. CM, the piece of land you have been given responsibility over is...

erm..

how can I put this delicately? See, here are the issues people: Mumbai is a tiny island, with 100 year old storm water drains, in absentia mangrove forests [because someone decided to trim the hedges, just a bit] and landfills that only serve to weaken the soil, making land-slides even more dangerous. But don't base all of this on just my word: ask Debi Goenka & Chandrashekhar Prabhu, as the BBC did.

Got the picture? Okay then. If the situation is so grave, how come no one foresaw the risk that rain could bring? or did the state government assume that a few slum deaths every year didn't really matter, that mumbaikkers would pull together, as Deshmukh has been constantly chirping whenever there's a reporter listening?

Poor little bugger. Even his own party has been denouncing his gang's inability to take immediate action.

Someone tell politicians that apart from bribery and vote-garnering, they also need to take evening classes in disaster management.

No surprise though. Everyone knows how chicken-with-its-head-cut-off politicians can be. In fact, Kalpana Sharma even voiced a growing opinion, that maybe Mumbai should be self-governed. Her claim is that during the calamity of the past 4 days, there was no one to call, no one to ask help from.

Mr. Prime Minister, if I were you and reading this article, I would have my chaddis in a twist. Of course its a Sovereign Socialist Secular Democratic Republic. Of course you will allay the people's fears, and scramble to make some structural changes that can be used to batter down murmurs of displeasure and insurrection.

But this is mumbai se aaye mera dost-- Its not a little village in Andhra Pradesh. Do something quick, before your sovereign republic falls apart, the tears of frustration washing away the rotting maze of bad civic planning that all our metropolitan cities have been built on.

There have been some strange reactions though, that have taken away some of the glitter from bombay's dreams. One has been the obsession with the well-being of the movie industry. The other has been Realist shaking of heads over the hubris of this shaky, water-logged city that seeks to rival other water-logged metropolitan cities of the world, like Shanghai and Hong Kong. Yet another has been to cry out for Reliance blood over the cutting of electricity.

My friend Anshu [may his tribe increase] pulled out another interesting aspect of the strange human sadness-- It had to do with the response of certain members of the media. Of one paper in particular, that "Grand Old Lady", the Times of India, and one article that appeared in it:

Uma Mahadevan Dasgupta wrote this, and I applaud her. Nice clean upper cut.

At least Rediff is doing the right thing by its readers, by giving them the space and place to speak their story.

The show must go on, ladies and gentlemen-- But can we cut the clowning bits out? It seems in incredibly bad taste.

My biggest concern at the moment? Not that the film city will lose the stuff that poets and sunday-morning journos sing about...

... I fear about the spread of disease. I fear about patch-work measures that wont hold against the next cloud burst. I fear for the homeless, for whom drifting has been given a whole new cruel meaning.

Please visit http://cloudburstmumbai.blogspot.com http://mumbaihelp.blogspot.com/
http://aidindia.org/FloodRelief/

For Those About to Rock...

2005-07-31T14:33:00.000-07:00

AC/DC last night- louder, faster, bigger and ballsier than the Zeppelin show, for two reasons:

1) Chris who did the Zep show was a wuss compared to Patrick [up with the irish!] who did the lights for last night's AC/DC.

2) You can't beat Australian rockers who have life, balls, a capacity for booze and various felony records.

The show was one huge adrenaline rush. It began with For Those About to Rock, pounded on through what do you do for money, honey and big balls... let there be rock had us yelling for more.. half an hour more of unadulterated rock ended with Thunderstruck... which is how we felt when we left the Planetarium.

We salute you, O bad boys of Rock.

Fire!!

With a purple umbrella and a fifty cent hat, livin', lovin'...

2005-07-30T15:13:00.000-07:00

Got to sit inside a black globe and watch a Zeppelin laser show last night.

*smug look* HA!!!!!

No, I will not rub it in. But by our holy mother of all saints and sweet flowers that bloomed in the dawn of time THE SHOW WAS BLOODY AMAAAAAZING!!

Damn I love this band.

Driving there, and back again after the show was great too- Katie taking the freeway because it means driving faster, Portland for the first time minus the glass air-conditioned controlled sheath of a college van or city bus. The lights and the sharp curves run their laughing fingers through your hair as you stick your neck out to feel breathless in the km's zipping past. You deft-swerving to avoid kamakazi sparks off her ciggarette as she flicks it out the window. Pinball Wizard on the stereo.

In short, I had finally left L&C behind for the first time to go out into the city to see what I would see. It felt like the first time anyway. Everything was sharper-cut, and we didn't need anyone or anything except the ride and where we were going to. We turned off the freeway, and then we reached the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, popularly known as OMSI. The show started at 8:15pm.

Imagine if you will sitting inside a pitch black sphere in chairs eased back at a comfortable obtuse-- No one breathes, you cant hear anything or see the tips of your fingers. And then In The Light starts itself. Glowing bits of laser open their eyes, raise their heads and then fall striking the black in front of your eyes, then rear back... soft fluid circles swallow each other and then get re-enter the space as flickering shafts of sharp blue, red, green and yellow.

My favourite was when this gridded tube that moved like a roller-coaster anaconda out of a Beck video glided all around us over the inside of the Planetarium's walls, swooping down to swallow us whole as Black Dog rolled out. Illusion of falling out of your seat into a black hole but with this music playing, who cared? In fact falling and flying was the only thing on all our minds.

The song list altered a bit for the evening- Kashmir and Stairway to Heaven were not originally on the list but played anyway. No complaints from me, hell no.

Light and sound in your brain and soul, and your feet forget the ground.. you actually start lifting yourself up out of your seat, especially when the gridded anaconda swirled you around, to the left up and over with Plant crooning "baby, baby... pretty baby" over and over [which he did do a lot of, tis true]

Damn, I was born in the wrong decade. This was the band to see live, and to remember forever. Eyes fixed on the centre of black at the core of the laser works, letting myself be dragged into the blue long strands moving upwards and page's solo taking over everyone's breathing... our shadows taller than our souls.

To be a rock and not to roll.

We got back that night, with plans to return today for the AC/DC and Floyd shows.

These are the moments which have you stand inspite of the world hurtling on with no ties, no troubles and only one thought and that played by a magic man on his guitar. They are rare, so you hold them to you, even when the sunlight comes in at the window on the day of the family picnic.

The autumn moon lights my way.
For now I smell the rain,
And with it pain,
And it's headed my way.
Ah, sometimes I grow so tired,
But I know I've got one thing I got to do...

Ramble On...

...Got no time to for spreadin' roots,
The time has come to be gone.
And tho' our health we drank a thousand times,
It's time to Ramble On.

I should be dancing!

2005-07-29T14:58:00.000-07:00

Aye. Coz I miss that. Portland's great, but what with all the age restrictions-- and an incredibly high degree of wacko-ness past 7pm in the city, not sure why-- there aren't really any places to go to.

This isn't the city for clubbing. Thrift shopping, bubble tea, alternative concerts yes. Clubbing, no.

Ipods and pc speakers can only do so much, unfortunately. Sigh.

Till I pass the age bar, find a good club or return to madras [whichever comes first] guess I'll have to live vicariously through chair-dancing to well-choreographed videos like this one and damn, yeah-this one!.

Damn. Why can't I move like that?

No NO no, don't answer that one. Be kind, humans, be kind. Hmpf.

About being a Pro, one way or the other..

2005-07-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

One of my last posts, for now anyway, on this issue of Abortion-- Closure having come from listening to the official stand of both pro-lifers and pro-choicers on the aforementioned subject.

The benevolent Mr. Krauss felt that the best way to give us students a comprehensive look at the issue would be to invite two representatives of both sides to talk to us.

They took that point to heart. Talking to us, that is. One even talked at us. Talking with us of course, being outside their job description.

The pro-choicer came first, as a representative of NARAL. She brought with her flyaway officially blonde American hair, a business-like authority and hand-outs that seemed to say that contraception and medicare was what pro-choicers were fighting for, not the right to free and fair abortions. I found this a bit amusing-- Only because I always appreciate good marketing. By talking about contraception and medicare failings on the part of the government, stating the first as a method to prevent the need for abortions, and the second as a good reason why pregnancies place financial burdens on the mother, and thus abortions would help take that burden away, the woman deftly steered away from the most controversial bits.

Nothing was said about partial birth abortion. Nothing was said about providing expectant women with opportunities other than abortion to help deal with the foetus. She did cover the political aspect a little, and spoke of the injustice behind the government removing the citizen-- and what was obviously ten times worse, the woman's-- right to choose.

That right to choose rankled my friends. One asked what about the foetus' right to choose?

She looked puzzled, and asked him to repeat the question. Which he did, with indignant clarity. Go Bilal, go.

She mentioned the metaphor of the acorn and oak tree, stating that one could not say that the acorn "is" a tree, until the oak grows- root bark branches and leaves. The potential for life was pooh-poohed.

That left most of us gasping with the effort it took to stop ourselves from standing up and cussing in our respective vernaculars. That left me wondering whimsically at who came up with that example, and whether when that was first said out loud, if a room full of pro-choicers jumped up and clapped till their pantyhose waved triumphant.

I suppose the anger and confusion arose out of the complete lack of a valid connection between a human foetus and an acorn. Acorns, am sure, are wonderful little nuts. But what about the lack of sensory nerves, and the appearance of human features at 11 weeks into gestation?

An acorn falls into ground that sometimes helps it grow, and sometimes kills it. A baby starts in a warm, soft, nutrient-filled place which is a constant, race creed and country no bar. If it was so left to chance, this issue of birthing, then why doesn't the stork deliver them, or why dont they show up in the mail?

We spluttered, and she left.

The next speaker was a pro-lifer. In black and white, clean and precise, she came in armed with plastic tiny foetuses, 2 videos and enough pamphlets to paper our dorm rooms. She scored high points for preparation.

Her focus was that of partial birth abortion, and the lack of awareness of the foetuses own being. Personhood of the little bugger was not a question with her. With the models and with the videos she told us calmly of when fingers first formed, of responses to stimuli in the first trimester itself (3 weeks) which is the offically prescribed "best time" for having an abortion, and which the pro-choicer blondie declared was the period chosen by 98% of women to have an abortion.

It was curious however, that the videos focussed on women who though did have their abortions in the first trimester, were forced into the decision by family and partners, who declared moral or medical reasons: there was one woman who had a baby who was diagnosed with Down's syndrome, and whose partner asked her to get the abortion.

The videos were stark. No blood and screams, but tears and words describing how the act was regretted, how no one told them about the baby being "human" and not just a mass of cells.... how no one described fingers, and no one talked about the actual process of partial birth abortion.

Which by the way, consists of dilating a woman's cervix over 3 days, and then pulling the little thing out, feet first, with a pair of tongs, and while it's head is still inside, puncturing its spine and suctioning its brain out.

Which was, btw, a method used by the ancient egyptians to mummify their dead. Dead being the operative word.

None of us knew about the procedure. Neither, according to the video, did the women who got the abortion. You can imagine our reaction, especially since she had just passed around a soft-rubbered, moulded 6 week version of a baby, complete with nose, fingers and toes. Faces were turned away, and I am proud to say tears were shed. So much for the cynicism that pop culture brings.

The number of partial birth abortion cases, the pro-lifer declared, are never comprehensive, because it depends on who releases the information, and since its such a controversial operation-- note that the head remains inside, because if the kid was fully out, it would be infanticide-- no one wants to come out and claim statistics.

The videos-- and the speaker-- focussed on how no one tells the mothers about the procedures of abortion to be followed. This I found bizarre: go in for an open-heart surgery, and you can sue if Doctor Jones doesn't explain in detail the exact cuts he plans to make during your slicing and dicing. The problem is that since abortion is so hushed up, except in metropolitan cities, no one treats it as a surgical procedure which is exactly what it is.

Other issues were neatly addressed by this speaker-- who by the way, had an easier time simply because she had a sympathetic audience-- such as the issue of psychological health brought up by the pro-choicers.

Apparently a pregnancy could cause grave imbalance to a woman's mind. What the speaker did was to focus on the psychiatric issues that women who had gotten abortions faced, and which no one talked about, except the "victims" themselves, and that too only now. Much weeping, much talk of anniversary syndromes, of the inability to have more children due to a perforated uterus, or wondering what the child at 5 would've looked like.

Amidst the on screen weeping, and the plastic kiddies with thumbs and umbilical cords-- a few strong arguments came up which I wonder how pro-choicers fight with any validity.

The first was the issue of choice. Pro-choicers say a woman has the right to choose, the right to her own privacy. And yet, according to the pro-lifer, they are not allowed to retract their decision.

I can put off a bloodtest. According to the videos and the speaker, a woman who schedules an abortion can't go back on it. She is strapped down, jabbed and anaesthesized.

Jesus. I mean really. How is that freedom to choose?

The second, is the sparseness of choice. For pro-choicers like NARAL, abortion is the only other option a woman can choose other than having her baby. No one talks about adoption, no one talks about pregnancy centres or financial aid.

I am only curious to know why. And also, why ban ultrasounds from abortion centres?

In short-- Why are you so desperate to hide the kid's appearance from the mother?

Fear that she will change her mind, and you will be stripped of a cause to fight for?

Bush signed the ban on partial birth abortions. Probably the only intelligent thing he ever did during his term. It was almost immediately called into question by the Congress, who fuddle-duddled with the litigation and the bone-weary defintion of privacy according to the 14th amendment.

I am bone weary. Because I have a vague suspicion that in this fight to make a blanket law for what is and always will be an individual decision, sovereign to each case, the very people whose rights are being fought for-- the indigineous, uneducated, underage women of America-- are the ones who are suffering the most, being victims of propoganda and vote gathering.

As for the foetuses-- My children, the thought of you dying unnoticed, unnamed and un first-toothed pains me beyond measure. But in such a world of chaotic, skirted, flag-waving women and political brochures, I can only hope you will be born into another time where the grown-ups remember what it was like to depend on someone else for the chance to live.

I'm not afraid of Virginia Woolf

2005-07-26T15:27:00.000-07:00

Quite the opposite actually. Joyce and her were the first ones who made me love the twist and give of words, and the magic you can still make with them.

The first two weeks of June at Lewis & Clark saw an conference on the Woolf and her works, attended by people from all over the country. Along with the conference, came an exhibition of a private collection of books that belonged to the author-- The conference was closed to me, but the exhibition was a different matter.

I'm not sure what it is about old books. And old handwriting. And dates and names that mean very little to very few people, almost no one, anymore, but did once describe the entire universe of one witty sad woman who lived a long time ago, and wrote about, among other things, a man named Septimus who saw his life and death in a tree, and wasn't afraid of gravity.

I have often wondered at this woman, who was so incredibly honest about her childhood and her mind, who walked into the sea to prevent her husband from seeing her loose her senses completely.

The books in the glass shelves in Watzek library traced a lifetime of reading, bus tickets, translations and concert passes-- Woolf and her husband were both scholars in Greek, and I was thoroughly kicked to see her fitting in words and question marks in the margin of a book of poetry by Sophocles....

... She lived at a time when people still wrote quotes into the front pages of books they gifted to friends, daughters and lovers. For example, in a copy of Samuel Johnson's 'Lives' [a book that made us shiver in lit crit class last year] gifted to her by her brother and sister, the following was scrawled in scrawny cursive-

'To Goat from Nessa and Thoby Jan 17th, 1895.
"It is a very hard thing upon the great men of past centuries that they should've come into the world so soon"
-Dickens.'

She was 13 years old, was Woolf.

I wanted to touch those pages, sniff the bus ticket that took her around London, the way I breathe in the pages of my grandfather's books.

People live on through the books they leave behind, books that knew what their nose hairs looked like, that were dog-eared, carried around and coffee-stained.

I found it hard to walk away from the library. I thought of her reading and shelving all these books in front of me, while dealing with bouts of manic depression... while book-keeping for Hogarth Press which she and Leonard co-owned... I thought of her choosing the words to write that last note to her husband:

"I feel certain that I am going mad again: I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness... I can't fight it any longer, I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work" (The Letters of Virginia Woolf, vol. VI, p. 481).

This in 1941, no young violent life, but one that had walked with depression and success and people coming and going-- She went to classical music concerts. A woman came to college, a noted pianist, to play pieces Woolf would've listened to while writing books like Orlando and Mrs. Dalloway...

...Music by Debussy, Ravel, Albeniz... music that if you closed your eyes brought you pictures of blue imps melting and growing into the night, a water-sprite women who called to a man with tear-drops, dew-drops on his window pane, seeking human love as her release from the lake... Faustus watching the gibbet and feeling the horror of a new power he would never understand till it was too late....

This is what she knew, till her last days when she spoke incessantly, word on word, un-ending, seeing birds that spoke in Greek to her.

She walked into water, and was found 3 weeks later by children.

I respect her for this. There is something to be said for walking into cold ocean alone and aging, as opposed to walking into fire at noon with people crying and yelling all around. It takes dignity and the calm that comes with a lifetime of living within one's own head.

Like Vincent, Virginia, you came into this world too soon. Thank you.

"The young man had killed himself; but she did not pity him; with the clock striking the hour, one, two, three, she did not pity him, with all this going on. There! the old lady had put out her light! the whole house was dark now with this going on, she repeated, and the words came to her, Fear no more the heat of the sun. She must go back to them. But what an extraordinary night! She felt somehow very like him—the young man who had killed himself. She felt glad that he had done it; thrown it away. The clock was striking. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. He made her feel the beauty; made her feel the fun. But she must go back."
- Mrs. Dalloway.

So we go on a, summer holiday- pt. 1 Yahalla

2005-07-25T00:21:00.000-07:00

This weekend, the administrative staff and professors in charge of us here at Lewis & Clark decided to take us camping, to the great pacific north-west coast.

I have stories to tell you, and pictures to show you- but having just returned today, these will build themselves into this goblin lair over the next couple of days.

But since a journey it was, I must start at the beginning. Which was a pit-stop for tobacco supplies for our hookah at our favourite lebanese restaurant here in Portland, called Ya-Halla. A beautiful little place, completely out of the way which still doesn't prevent it from being crowded all times of the day. Their makloubeh and hommus is some of the best I've had, and they serve Vimto- All gulf born/bred kiddies will know why I am kicked by that... Vimto is about as popular as Coke in Oman and other Gulf and Middle East states; it tastes of berries and was introduced by the British. Damn. Downer. Ah well.

But food wasn't our goal, as previously mentioned. Those of us with i.d's that said we were over 18 peered at different containers of frangrant jasmine, apple, lemon and bubblegum flavoured tobacco for our little orange hubbly-bubbly. Those of us without looked at olives and dried figs.

Walking by the olives-- For I, but of course, was one of those without an i.d card-- I got to peek into the main restaurant... my mind flew back a few months to the day when a huge group of us from L&C, as diverse as a W.T.O protest group, descended on Yahalla for dinner.

3 tables were joined. Bills seperated. Much food ordered. Hommus decimated. Languages spoken- At that gathering, there were people from Jordan, California, Eritrea, Syria, Bahrain, Morocco, India, Canada, South Korea, Japan, Idaho and Seattle. Those who knew what to order laughed at those who didn't, and good-naturedly helped them do so. Waitresses wilted, chefs fumed. Life was beautiful.

And this is what a pickle at Yahalla looks like.

That was a good night. Beyond all cynicism and tiredness, coming together will always be the most positive thing that humans can do.

Yahalla means hi!

The power of that word is underestimated. With it, loves and phone numbers have been won and lost.

We were soon on our way again, rolling towards the campsite, jasmine and apple flavoured baccy in a bag. More on the trip soon enough.

Of Hubris and Doppelgangers

2005-07-18T19:50:00.000-07:00

Hubris.

What the Greeks used to describe the tragic flaw in a hero's character. Nowadays we call it pride. It's a bit more though. To explain:

Yeah, stuff like that. It's being pig-headed as well, not just proud. In short, an excessive belief in one's own belief. O President Bush...

... It was hubris that made me google Don Marquis and not look beyond the nice old man I first found. This of course in the article on abortion that I dashed off in such heat yesterday.

Truth is-- I bare my soul here-- The Don Marquis that the Wiki article was referring to was in fact this genial, though watery senior gent who was not and never could be the pithy creator of such gods as archy and mehitabel who are the wonderful people I spent all of yesterday with. I apologize to both venerable gentlemen, and to you, good readers of this Goblin's scribbilage. Head hung in shame, forked tail between my legs, I can only quietly promise to never let such a slip occur again. Vae victus.

But the fall was worth it. While in the mud... I did find Archy and Mehitabel. Who are they, you ask?

To put it simply, Archy is a cockroach with the soul of a Byron, an Eliot. He types poetry on Marquis' typewriter. Mehitabel is an alley cat who thinks she's the reincarnation of cleopatra.

In short, ever since Gary Larsen, this is some of the best stuff I have ever seen. Please come meet them and make them your friends.

In short though- Apart from the joy I received at meeting Marquis' creations, I must declare the incredible and deep shame experienced at having misattributed an article. How could I do this to you, O Marquis Of Archy's typewriter? Your soul is of higher things, not mere socio-political debate. And apologies, O musty-fusty-sweet Marquis Of Pro-life Views: I nod and bow to thee as the originator of my present pro-breathing argument.

But really, ladies and gentlemen- This did carry some fear for me. Two Don Marquises?

Freud and his saxon ancestors did speak of doppelgangers but this is too much.

Then came the second fear- Was there, dear god of all sweet mercies COULD THERE BE another Priyanka Joseph?????

[The 5 worlds stood silent, still awed- fishbowl to goblin lair remained pale and cowed. Fingers were clenched... the weight of the universe's behind rested on the shoulders of those who stood barely breathing in the shadows of the brickwork... For the first time, the shocked public, the knights and maids, saw the ultramarine corners of the goblin's lips tremble...]

I searched, I sought with a gleaming intent. I had to know. I had to.

Google vomited up search results for my name.

AAAAAAAARGH!!!

The horror. There is a carrier of my name, and it even lives in the city I used to reside within until very recently.

I feel robbed. Lessened. Reduced. Made a shadow of what I used to be.

Sniff.

Wonder what Archy would say about how I am feeling now....

"...yes i am sad
says the majestic mackerel
i am as sad
as the songof a soudanese jackal
who is wailing for the blood red
moon he cannot reach..."
- excerpt from Archy interviews a pharaoh

What he cannot reach. Ah, over-reaching oneself... O hubris. I guess I should be ok with another female humanoid walking around with my name in my hometown. I know Marquis could not have minded having this milk-faced professorial kind carry his banner on.

Greatness does not lie in pride, but in the ability to talk to cockroaches, and not mind if they misspell your quotes.

Archy, I bow to thee.

About freedom and killing babies

2005-07-17T22:13:00.000-07:00

Thus the whole issue is about freedom and the problem of deciding when life starts. When does it become a crime to conciously and wilfully take the life of another human being, however small?

There are those of course, who would say that by referring to abortion in the title with the words "killing babies", Im inducing prejudice even before I begin an objective-- and I think futile: Mr. Krauss, I do this only for you-- discussion of the ethical arguments regarding the same.

No, but really- What else is it? Call it a cell, a nucleus, a fetus, a non-person, the act is still that of depriving an organism of a climate conducive to its survival. It is moving a plant away from sunlight. It is not feeding the canary.
And I suppose that people are free to choose to do such things. Democracy and liberty and all that. Btw, Im still not sure what happened to Equality and Fraternity. It seems those two kids did get lost in the wood. But I digress.

My point is, freedom of choice does exist. A government, for example, is free to send troops into another country which it feels that the latter is a threat to the well-being and prosperity of the former's people. A man is free to shoot a hyena or cougar if it means protecting his cattle or flock. Protecting personal interest. So sure, if a woman doesn't want a baby, forgot her morning after pill, is 15 years old, is 55 years old, is poor, is uneducated, is married to another man, is catholic, is muslim, is sickly, is unused to children, is on a 9 to 10 Wal-Mart job-- She has the right to get rid of a living cell inside her.

But don't expect me to prettify the act. Don't ask me to wrap the thing in diplomatic ribbon, and call it "right to control one's own body" or "the negation of the lifespan of the organism within". Squish a seed before it flowers, and you kill a plant. Eat an omlette, and that egg doesn't grow into higgldey-piggldey my fat hen. Face facts people. Cut the crap. And let's talk.

True, deciding when life starts is something that the medical community and the judiciary as a whole don't want to get into. They're afraid a definition will cause an uproar of the kind that collectively, they will not be able to contain. The vatican will have a say in it, surely- As will the voters. It's a delicate situation.

Even where it is legal, it comes down to personal choice. But who's choice- mother or unborn baby? Thus the core twin issues of freedom and the beginning of life.

For the controversial issues class, we had to read a few articles on the ethics of the subject on this Wiki link, choose one that we found interesting and comment on the arguments proposed by the writer and on whoever responded to them on the Wiki page.

I found two articles interesting. One simply because it used the worst metaphor ever for arguing its case-- The author compared carrying a child to being hooked up to a famous violinist who needs the use of your kidneys, and thus is living off you, in a far more bizarre way than what most squatters are wont to choose.

The other article by Don Marquis discusses the concept of personhood, that the U.S judiciary is so jittery about defining. In fact, Judge Blackmun in the Roe vs. Wade ruling of 1973 actually stated that there is no way that the judiciary could know when life actually begins, and is not in a position to define that. Since then, no other Supreme Court judge has tried doing so.

In his article, Marquis states that abortion can never be right, as it deprives an organism of the chance to live and enjoy those rights so carefully protected by democracies in the world today.

The contributor(s) to this Wiki article have mumbled in their arguments against his statements: in answering the above point, the claim is made that in the same way that euthanasia could be justified if it prevented great pain, life can be denied to a fetus if it can be ascertained that it will grow to have an unhappy, unloving, or scarred future.

How can that be ascertained, is my question. Who was sure about any of our futures before birth? Even kings have lived different lives from the one they were born into- Which Edward was it, that sweet boy who gave up his throne to marry a woman? Things like that.

The contributor(s) state that "a powerful response to the Marquis argument is that the ovum and sperm have the same future as the fetus does".

Eh??!?

Marquis himself said such a claim was not part of his argument. How is the above a powerful response? Like an electron and nucleus are components of an atom, in the same way a sperm and ovum are the components of the nucleus that following meiosis [or was it mitosis?] comes to be a fetus. More importantly- what is the life expectancy of a sperm or ovum? Ever 28 days, I know an egg that takes that last long paradise road away from me. And sperms jostle in the hurried glory and haste of 90 days of production in the scrotal sacs. And then, the few brave intrepid warriors who are sent to the battlefield survive only 48 hours in occupied territory, if you get my drift. [I apologize, its late and I'm sleepy]. The health section at ivillage.com states that post 48 hours, it maybe that some sperms survive.

Maybe is an iffy word, ladies and gentlemen. All I know is that a fetus has much more of a chance of growth and development into personhood as is discussed by law than a sperm or ovum, who do not evolve except in fusion with each other. The fetus, given basic nourishment and surrounding, evolves on its own. I thus declare the argument offered by Wiki against Marquis void in this respect.

Powerful response, my umbilical cord. But to go on...

One of the main ideas in Marquis' discussion is that we all evolved out of being a fetus. We could not have gotten here without that period of gestation and growth. The point concluded is that it is just as wrong to kill one of us before birth, as it is to kill one of us after. The main arguing point is that the same entity that you and I are now, was the same one at the fetus stage.

The argument of personhood doesn't have a rat's ass chance [pardon my french] of overthrowing this argument in my opinion, unless it is in a court of law, using the loopholes of legal jargon.

By definition, indeed. Hmpf.

And I say this based on one question-- Who decides who gets to be a person, with constitutional rights, leaving the sucking-thumb-curledup-thing-inside without an attorney, and no way to say no, I dont want to take the fifth, dammit, in fact I want the right to speak...

Does mum get to decide? In which case, someone make a provision for a fetus to send flowers, chocolate or a new kitchen cabinet unit to its carrier on mother's day. Hey, any leverage that could work, is what I say. Methinks Darwin would agree in principle.

There is rambling by the contributor(s) at the end, who I think are secretly pro-life and are uncomfortable with being objective on this article. In the attempt to sound intellectual, they sound like the ingredients on the back of a bag of pot-pourri.

I like the Marquis article because it leads one to ask a basic question about who decides who has the right to end a life that unfortunately was made dependant on a thinking, free, liberty-minded humanoid.

As to how it influenced my stance on the matter... Im pro-life. I disagree with the freedom to end a life, unless its a medical or emotionally traumatic situation that is humanly justifiable in the context of rights. If the mother is a 14 year old victim of incest, rape or any other form of harassment, then I would say by all means- abort. Don't make the mother a victim of her past. Yes, in the end it comes down to survival of the race, procreation and whatnot. But I could've sworn our civilization has evolved to a point where we are thinking animals, not just animals.

I could be wrong.

I don't believe in the freedom to end a life that you didn't plan for, or that interrupts your schedule, or creates a hole in the savings you made till date, or that makes your 20 or 30 year old children feel awkward about.

My country's constitution talks about constitutional rights and responsibilities. The world I live in, the things I've seen, the people I've met, the books I've read, have taught me to respect life because no one made me god.

For instance- My mum could've folded her hand when it came to my birthing time. She had been dealt bad cards. She had been draining for a day, I wasn't moving, there had been medical carelessness. The doctor told her the best thing would've been to forget about me, and at least make sure her life was not in jeopardy.

I state mum's case as an argument against those "abort according to your will" people, because here was a woman who had a medical reason, and a damn good one to have me flushed.

Mum, my little mum, stood her ground like no Trojan ever could or will.

I have lived 20 years, I have laughed cried loved hated raged discussed failed won eaten bathed sang plotted lied cheated stolen cursed blessed hugged hit swore promised slept prayed and woke.

I have taken oaths, been in leadership positions in school and college, won international essay competitions, answered cocky to a Rhode Scholarship committee, and am now in Portland on a scholarship.

In short, I have lived a human life. Coz my mum let me.

Hell ya. I'm pro-life. Moderate, but cussing as I go.

Talking about Controversial issues...

2005-07-17T21:51:00.000-07:00

... its another course we're all immersed in this summer. The issues we're dealing with right now are abortion laws, and legalizing drugs.

This is our class's home page, created by our dear Professor, Mr. Krauss- "And still they gazed, and still their wonder grew..." though, far be it from me to call Mr. Krauss' head... erm... dimension-challenged, in any way. Goldsmith's Village Schoolmaster came from a lesser line.

Now see folks, this is what I like about classes here. There's a website. It's updated. We can post homework. There are online resources to read. And best part? All our blogs are linked to the class page (check us all out in the link above). Now THAT was new when heard the idea. Ah, the freedom of small classes.

Coming back to controversial issues though... here's a bit I wrote for class a while back. The idea was to look at this picture-

And free-write based on that. This is what came up:

"And if you thought that I cant see you, that you cant hear me, that I don't have an opinion hahahahahahahahahahha- nah na-na-na-nah-naahhhhh!!!

Eyes maybe closed, and u can suction me out anytime you want me gone, but at this moment go screw yourself, mr. man who thinks he's god…

God. Weird old dude in white… his beard looked a lot like all this stringy goop around me right now, was as soft too. Could fall asleep in it, as fast asleep as I am now.. The ends of it would stream out, smokish…

Smokish. If I ever get out of here, and grow big and open my eyes, Im going to smoke, and its going to be a pipe. So I will still look as cool as I do now, but then that streaming out smokish will be mine, my own, MINE I TELL YOU!! MINE!!

Mine. Does this person I can hear breathing and swallowing all around me think that I am her mine? Does she think to herself feeling me yawn and go na-na-na-nah-naaah-naaaah that “hey, you're mine, kid”?

Mine. Goldmine? Don't dig me out of here. Im the kind of precious stuff that gets better when you keep it. Kinda like that shiny yellow stuff…That will allow me to buy many many pipes. Much smokish. And I will be powerful too, with my own soft stringy goop that people will like to put their face in and tell others about.

My god its bright in here. Feels like Im inside a grape that's sitting in the sun just after a frost-down in a vineyard in France… grapes like glowing sun-is-hidden purply-orangy-life staying hidden, waving, yawning, under a blanket of smokish frost. "

Soul-weeded

2005-07-17T19:49:00.000-07:00

Every saturday during the month of June meant volunteering at some environmentally or socially motivated site. This was because hands-on work was part of our course on Consumerism and Sustainability... It is a big deal here in Oregon.

People all over the state-- at least those who can afford it-- focus on buying groceries from locally owned stores filled with local, organic produce. They sort their garbage. They recycle. They use paper, not plastic. They donate towards charities that support squirrels and old growth forests. They even fight passionately to preserve a certain spotted owl. Not to be over- wit(ty) , but such does woo even the most hardened of consumerist hearts. Ergo, it was this ethos that they figured needed to be passed on to us hardened, consumerist scholarship students.

Our first quest [this blog being a bit delayed in its postings, apologies] was thus to clean/weed out the unwanted green stuff at Jackson Bottom Wetlands. The trip commenced with sleepy grumbles about an ethereal span of breakfast time whose components consisted of frozen-- and I mean ice age frozen-- yoghurt & stolid muffins baked during the Revolution. And yes, I mean the Russian one.

We were then buckled into our seats. Sniggers rose out of the back regarding whose bottom we were going to go clean out, and such. Children.

We reached there in the misty coldness of a Portland June morning. There were other volunteers there, all bundled up and garden-gloved. We were cheerfully shown water, shovels, cookies and grass cutters... Not necessarily in that order, mind you.

And here we are just before we started- Mary, kneeling on the left. Mary the Invincible, she is the patron saint of us scholarship students, the one who helps us with paperwork, the one who finds us friendship families, who then work as extended units of the college taking us around Portland, and showing us parades, restaurants, picnics and gorges. Standing behind her is Christy [our faithful student guide, and the driver the school car a.k.a the Walrus, coz its so huge], Adel [from Syria, gaunt, red-sweatered and grumpy. The muffins were still an issue], Bilal [from Morocco, glazed over as he was concentrating on the arabic music streaming from my ipod], Zainab [kneeling next to Mary, from Bahrain, and passionate about human rights issues and politics], Yours truly next to Bilal [beginning to miss my ipod], Ben(azir) [next to me, and still unused to the cold] and finally Debbie Anholt, far right, and the professor who taught us that course.

We set to work soon enough. The ground was assailed by bloody rakes, gashed open with spades... weed-roots screamed as we pulled them out of the scalp of the earth. Slender-waisted grass wept and swayed as we unceremoniously attempted snipping them short. The scene was that of gory and inept-- though thankfully unequal-- battle.

The troops acting like a bunch of pillaging vikings, laughing and posing amidst the carnage, like so:

Oh, the pity... the horror of it.

Do note that Bilal and I are holding our Weapons of Weed Destruction (WWD) far above the actual battlefield. I must confess that apart from bouts of spirited evacuation of the enemy, this is pretty much the level at which they stayed held. Sort of like U.N peace keeping forces in Africa, we remained onlookers at this great plantnic cleansing.

Do also note that I had retrieved my ipod by this time. Victory, thou soundeth sweeth.

[Hate that lisp. Comes upon me at the strangest timeth.]

Weeding we did. Flowering shrub-seed sowing we did. Earth worm hunting, garden snake finding, and looking out for eagles-- who use the wetlands for nesting-- followed. Breaks of cookies and water occured. Jackson Bottom used to be a dumpsite that is now being turned into a safe biosphere for bird and plant life. Thus though this weeding and planting is noble work, it is also unending. There is much to do, everyday. It is an environmentalist's Iraq: they cannot pull out now, but must go on.

At least the eagles and waterbirds seem to be benefitting from this toil. Aas well as the beavers and ants and earthworms and all other gentle creatures that can be found in The Wind in the Willows.

We returned muddy, and grass scented. Grass still, in whatever its form, conveys a sense of brooding, happy at times, othertimes sombre.

No ecstatic highs this time... though fyi, Oregon is one of the few states that has legalized medical use of marijuana. Doctor, I feel a pain coming on. Roll me a J. And such. But to go on-

No ecstatic highs. Ezekiel's right though: weeds show us the earth's cycle of mortality... it takes very little to get a dandelion to grow. I would let everything grow, though. Grass and weed together, thistle and fuschia shrub.

But then as Volodimir Barabash , that sweet Canadian-Ukranian says,

" Myself, I hold no grudge against the weed.

Especially, since I don't own a lawn."- To a Dandelion, that little golden devil

Of the ways we walk in, and the roofs we sit under

2005-07-15T03:58:00.000-07:00

I can't say enough about Lewis & Clark, campus-wise. And for an already verbose person, this could be bad for you.

But hey lookie- I got pictures as well to aid the process... seeing is believing, et al.

Close your eyes first though. Yes, now.

Alright.

Imagine a sun-bright day, clouds away to the east but too far away to obscure this brilliant, almost painful blue that the sky dives into in waves. Imagine happy tiny bees who might fly into you in their glee, but then apologize softly and carry on. Imagine deliriously happy labradors chasing over lawns. Imagine cool breeze that laughed at the heat of the sun, and peeked under your skirt gallantly.

That was the kind of day at Lewis & Clark that Im going to show you pictures from:

Voila. Thats Howard Hall, where all my classes are, since its just the summer session. The granite blocks are where students sit, sun themselves, smoke, wait, talk and read. My dorm is to the left, and up a gentle slope, a flight of stone steps, another gentle slope (huff, puff) and there it stands, squat and comfy with grass all around it.

And thats inside Howard- a view of the main staircase that rises through its centre, a wall collage of impressive range, a patient Ben(azir) and a sleepy Rama. This was taken in the first week or so of me and Ben getting to LC... We were on a tour of Howard for our class on sustainability, since its built with recyclable material and installed with energy saving devices and has a environmentally-friendly, though minimalist design.

To give you a glimpse of what Im talking about, check this out- recycled carpet polymers in the sofas... those cabinets are made out of the cores of trees usually thrown away because worm paths can be seen in the final product... as fine, thin, red lines. The Y-shaped beams use less material and yet structurally hold as well as a wall of concrete. The light panels work on sensors, and dim or brighten depending on the amount of sunlight in the room. There are sound-absorbing panels all over the building, to balance the acoustics, which are great. Just ask the guy who plays his guitar with spanish fingering everyday in between classes.

And there's one of the main conference rooms. The view looks out on Mount Hood, the friendly neighborhood snow capped mountain. As it can only be seen on clear days, It usually gets a ton of smiles from Portlanders who see it.

And finally-

There's us outside Howard, after the tour- There's Debbie our professor standing next to Ben(azir), and David, our santa man from Facilities who took us on the tour. Here you see us smiling, coz we're waiting to tramp off to lunch. LC won an award for Howard.

It was the kind of day that a new kingdom could've been founded, world peace reached, and the ozone hole closed up. Everything was bright and beginning.

Lunch wasn't bad either.

I wonder if Noah ever peeked in here...

2005-07-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

... Or the three little pigs, for that matter. Here being the Rebuilding centre in Portland, where they love the concept of recycling so much that they even recycle houses.

Those that are being demolished, that is. The Rebuilding Centre, a huge warehouse cum workshop thus finds itself filled up with bath-tubs, cabinets, nails, commodes, plywood and heaters all year round.

We were driven there one saturday in June, where we helped fill a cleared up space with merchandise for the Centre to hold a sale, where those who wanted cost-effective house fixtures came to sniff around and buy, cash or card. The Centre is also dedicated to promote an environmentally-friendly lifestyle.

Hard work, I say. Brave volunteers that we are.

And yes, the natives here DO help out at places like this for free. I wonder at the motivation. And puff and pant alongside.

BEFORE

AFTER

2005-07-14T20:33:00.000-07:00

Get yer programs here... yours truly and Rama. Notice the cool T-shirts. The grey skies. And Rama's deslike for cameras.

2005-07-14T20:32:00.000-07:00

And here's tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee, the people who give me a reason to smile each day. Meet my faithful Ben(azir) on the left, and Laura on the right. Behind them, beyond the railing, is the Willamette.

2005-07-14T20:28:00.000-07:00

And here we are down on the Waterfront for the Blues festival, getting our briefing. Yes, that is my still sleepy, red-tinged head behind Rama's. Yes, that is Rama, third from the left and my very good friend from Jordan.

I got da ba-loooze...

2005-07-14T19:12:00.000-07:00

... (as Gul used to say in school), on July 2nd in downtown Portland, on the waterfront.

The Waterfront Blues Festival here in Portland is an annual event that brings blues lovers and artists from around the country to the banks of the Willamette, along which people walk, smoke, stretch out, run after dogs and children, listen to great music and eat corn dogs. And since it usually coincides with the 4th of July, everyone-- And I mean EVERYone-- huddles together like happy sardines on that night and stares up the sky, waiting for the fireworks to go off.

Our intrepid group ventured out on the 2nd though- we were helping out the organizers, who happen to be Safeway [a happy chainstore found in yankville] and the Oregon Food Bank, who through this festival collect cans of food and green bills with old mens faces on them that those who visit the festival care to donate. No entry fee, give if you feel moved to do so.

Whoa.

I don't think I've ever been to a charity affair anywhere else where the audience could choose to be charitable, entry-fee-wise or not.

Another thing I was moved to whoa about? The money and food collected goes towards fighting the hunger problem in Oregon.

I didn't know there was a hunger problem in Oregon.

In fact, together with a large number of people from around the world, I didn't think it was possible for the States to have a hunger problem. All I have been told is about the U.S government dumping surplus wheat into the pacific. Rumor or not, the following fact isn't:

According to the Oregon Food Bank's website, working Oregonians in two income households have a hunger rate almost 4 times that of the rest of the nation. 2 parent houses with kids have hunger 3 times the national average.

Perspective gained, then. And a T-shirt, with the festival logo on it, and the chance to see what kind of genial animals live in the Portland Ark.

My job-- and that of three of my brave companions-- was to hand out festival programs to visitors. And thus the full regalia of the portland community burst forth first upon our eyes... and it was more fun than I have had in a long time.

I could tell you about the piercings, the dyed hair, the cyclists, the sk8er bois, the grandparents, the mexican tribes, the lone smokers who strode on full steam ahead, eyes focused on the concrete... I could tell you about the children, and the unfortunate man who asked me which blues performance I would recommend. I shifted from one foot to the other, made polite throat noises, thrust a program in his hands, and pointed him towards the main volunteer group. What can I say? Blues, though I do love it, is not my strong point.

Gregorian chant and polkas yes, Blues no. Though one day...

That day however, saw us standing there under a rain-threatening sky for 4 hours, energetically telling people to "have a great day!" and tapping the occasional foot to music being played on one of the four stages closest to us.

Ben and I even got to stand backstage, since one of the technicians figured we were having so much fun on that side of the fence, we might as well be where the action was. And I loved it. The band on stage was doing a smooth rock and roll groove to the blues their lead singer was croonin', and four couples were on stage, dancing.

Could've been you and me, or mum and dad, or the guy who works at Fred Meyer and the nice lady who serves out my spaghetti every day at lunch. They were laughing, having the time of their lives, and the crowd loved it.

God, I wanted to dance. The smiley techie guy informed me that all I had to do, like these people on stage had done, was to go find a partner.

A partner. I grinned, shook my head, and got back to distributing programs before someone noticed I had been gone. Program distribution is simpler though less fun than negotiating the intricate steps of dance and man-finding in life, and always will be.

Om.

There were ducks in the waters below the pier, sun streaming from behind clouds above. There was also an enterprising young man who had painted himself and his clothes, and his little pedestal, a shiny blue-green. To the tips of his hair, even. And then he'd stand on the edge of the crowd, on his pedestal, very still, and play statue.

People loved it. The festival should include him as one of their attractions- He kept raking in the moolah with his handshaking when people came too close, his juggling of three glass globes, and his immaculate silence.

At the end of our shift, amidst the ice cream stains... the genial security people guiding boozed-out-of-their-skulls young men to the side... the cajun food smells... the dried grass, and the crushed ciggie-buds... the whistling and clapping crowd, and the shrieking kids running in and out of gushing pools of a hydrant someone had let blow....

at the end of our shift, we went home.

The festival attracted 1,500 volunteers this year. $348,000 dollars and 107,000 pounds of food was collected. And when you got tired of distributing programs, you could blow soap bubbles for general amusement, and personal Oming.

God, I love Portland.

Epilogue to the need for bricks and free speech

2005-07-14T18:43:00.000-07:00

It is finished.

Not being blasphemous. Fact is, it really IS finished.

The uproar was flamed, and then the growling lions tamed. Everyone got together for a moot over the issue of the article in the Oregonian: professors, students, scholarship people, other students at Lewis & Clark.

Points of view heard, the reporter and I had a talk-down over the phone- I accepted she had the right to frame an article any way she wanted to, and she accepted that generalizations will most often get a bunch of antsy international students on her case.

As a class project-- For after all, such things are to be learnt from-- We are all writing op-ed pieces to the Oregonian.

500 words.

And as for those of ye who don't think this goblin can keep to the word count- HA! All I can say to you is...

dear god, you're probably right. Sigh.

This is going to take work.

Promise to post it when Im done. Here's to a declaration of rights, including the freedom to be safe from stereotypes and all print media.

An economically worded declaration at that.

Amen.

Of free speech and the occasional need to throw a hard brick

2005-07-11T18:36:00.000-07:00

Folks, today has been a funny day to say the least.

First, I oversleep and miss my first class, and get to my second class-- Foreign Policy-- almost, almost too late. Class was the stimulating universe in a golden vitamin C globe that it always is.

And then I got to read the article in the Oregonian, a local newspaper here in Portland, which was supposedly a feature article on all us international students here at Lewis & Clark college in the PLUS scholarship program.

The key word there is "supposedly".

People were left out. Single perspectives were concentrated on. Interviewees claim they were misquoted, or at least their views mis-communicated.

But that wasn't the worst. Oh no. Not by a dragon's ass.

The worst was the following bit (and I quote):

"...Priyanka Joseph, a 20-year-old from southern India with red highlights in her hair and the Black Eyed Peas on her iPod..."

The goblin's eyes grew to flaming cold slits. His curiously carved fingernails curved into the stone wall, the rock squealing for mercy. His concentrated frown suddenly turned an annoying but fuzzily cute blue otherwordly creature into a flat-footed evil from hell, who spewed the worst at enemies, from over-used nylon socks to insults pertaining to the unfortunate mortal's mothers. His stare caused a crack to develop in the far wall of the courtyard. A black hole appeared behind it... the servants ran screaming as the maniacal laughter of creatures locked up in the vast darkness for a thousand years rent the air with their adamantine freedom cries....

Erm... yes. As I mentioned before, yours truly was a tad peeved.

My brick thus, is enclosed below.

I warn you. It's as ascerbic as the worst tempered lemon. And why not?

No one gets away with saying I have the Black Eyed Peas on my iPod. Screw you, biyatch. Eat my flaming words.
______________________

Date: Jul 11, 2005 4:42 PM
Subject: Re: 'Classroom with a world view ', appeared in The Oregonian, dated July 11, 2005.

Dear Shelby,

I felt moved to write this on reading your article published in the Oregonian today. It is unfortunate that due to computer errors you [and I assume, the editor] got the raw, incredibly impassioned, and pretty peeved version of what I'm writing to you now. The facts in this version remain the same, I do hope that thanks to a second and third reading of your article, my outlook is now a bit more sober and more understanding that it was an hour ago. And yes, I still do want to send this out to all the people concerned, because I feel it has to do with the way we all see the world.

To summarize my draft then- I had stated that I greatly admired your writing style, and did appreciate you taking time off to come visit with us at Lewis & Clark, and hear what we had to say. The "we" being- for those who were not present on this occasion- Zainab, Lamya and I, who are all students with the Dept. of State sponsored scholarship program called PLUS. I would also like to say at this point, that you had originally planned to speak to only Zainab and I, as you had informed us via email. I say this only because I want it recognized that I would've refused your interview, Shelby, since I don't like this kind of thing, except I thought that as I foreign student here I should be polite. Next time I'm sure I will pay more attention to my own gut instinct and choices.

I then went on to declare in my draft that I personally am never one to seek out publicity especially that of a newspaper, be it even one as esteemed as The Oregonian. I then said that this response to you and those involved has nothing to do with a lack of personal limelight or coverage. I said this because I want to ensure that no one misunderstands my motives for writing this piece, which are as follows-

Firstly, I have always been a student who has written about the things that has moved me the most. In the vernacular, that would be "whatever got me ragingly pissed off". This mode of communication happened through school and my college in India, and I consider it my freedom of expression. And considering others have the same sort of personal liberty, I try, most times, to ensure that I hurt no feelings in getting my point across with as much clarity as I can muster. So at this point, I would like to say I have no grudge against any person or institution, but would just like to voice my opinion.

Secondly- The first reading of your article left me asking questions about what exactly was the story you were trying to tell: was it about a class at Lewis & Clark College taught by Mr. Partovi, a scholarship program, young Arab women in America or all these put together? I then read this article over again, three times. And I begin to see that yes, it seems to be about all these three. This is good, and gives a lot of people a lot to read about. But one anxiety still remains: it concerns the effect of such an article on those who read it, who unlike you Shelby, did not get to hear all that was being said, but only get to read what you think—and quite justifiably so—is newsworthy. I have a problem with this because of the mental image your article creates, not only of the three elements I have already mentioned, but of the mental image it creates of the other individuals referred to collectively in your article- the other students in the foreign policy class, and the other students in the PLUS program present here at Lewis & Clark College. I have a problem with this because it offers only a narrow perspective, and doesn't tell the whole story.

And thirdly—And this is a petty motive, I will concede—I'm writing this article to state that I dislike being stuck in a paragraph in your article to add colour to the theme, and a refreshing change from the general storyline. I am no one's circus attraction, really. Call it an issue of pride, perhaps. I am but human. Mea culpa. But personally I think it would've been better for your article—and myself—if you had used a general, well-sketched paragraph about all us international students, and perhaps our music tastes and restaurant preferences, as a break from the main story rather than that one reference to just me. It would've pointed out a feeling of solidarity, it would've increased interest, and it would not leave me in a place wondering why one earth did I have to be mentioned, at all?

Now that motives have been stated, I need to talk about your article.

Let us assume that each of the three elements stated above—Partovi's foreign policy class, the PLUS scholarship and young Arab women—were each individually a theme in your article. I would like to deal with these separately.

Firstly, about Mr. Partovi's class: In your article, you have stated: "Partovi, who is more conservative than many of his Lewis & Clark students, often finds himself in the minority on the Southwest Portland campus…" Now I'm not sure about how American Journalism works, but I'm quite sure that such a sweeping statement requires just a tad bit more backing up than one student, and that too a summer session student's, point of view. Of course, if you did base this statement on fact that either Mr. Partovi himself or another student or faculty member supplied you with, then I retract and humbly apologize. But as a reader, it seems a distinct judgment of the Professor's stance by the author. I bring this up because I, like other students in Lewis & Clark College, know that though Mr. Partovi does not go yelling and waving slogans with the rest of the liberal bandwagon, and though he does quite brashly declare his liking for this country that offered him sanctuary and a place to grow and live in after the Iranian Shah was overthrown and he along with the other diplomats had to flee… though these stand as facts, I know Mr. Partovi to be an intense and energetic challenger of the decisions taken by present and past administrations belonging to this country's government. I know that he himself wrote to the President criticizing the move on Iraq. I know that he questions every conservative—and liberal—policy made by every administration till now. To me, this seems that Mr. Partovi is merely a subtle and keen-eyed intellectual, and not particularly conservative or liberal. And the problem with such statements in the newspaper is that that opinion turns public since it came from such an authority as The Oregonian. Otherwise, the fact that the class is a forum for students to speak based on fact, and to question everything is true, and granted. And of course, such classes, especially for students from a crisis-laden area, is of great importance because it means that important and immediate world issues are being discussed here and now. I fully agree with your article on this point.

As for the second element: you have mentioned facts and figures about the PLUS scholarship, and how the process of study moves the scholarship students through a two year period. Wonderful stuff, as the scholarship is a great idea and an open-minded venture by the Dept of State and the NGOs involved. However, it's the grouping and the generalization in your article that I have a problem with, which is what I will come back to after referring to the third element, which is young Arab women in America.

Now I understand that for the present day and age, such a theme, an element, is exactly what pushes a story. Women from traditionally oppressive countries and systems breaking out, coming forth, saying the good word, fighting the good fight. And if your story specifically had this element in mind as the core of the article, then I concede to that as well, and will continue this response solely based on my reaction to your article. However, if this element was NOT specifically your goal, then I have issues. Big ones. For such using of a minority—or a majority—voice to give context to the state of the entire group is just wrong. So wrong. Especially since this scholarship has aimed at bringing many minorities together, not just one. Especially since it aims to look at all countries, all stories, all students, not just one.

Your article talked about PLUS students. What about the others here? Am sure not everyone's parents or close relatives are involved with some noble politically-affiliated cause, but I am quite sure that each one has as big a story: all of which would've contributed to a more authentic reading of this story of international scholarship students here in Portland.

For example: there is a student who was detained by customs officials in New York for five hours, only because they asked him who Lewis & Clark were, and he replied that he did not know. There is a student here who's bags were searched in Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris only because she seemed more foreign than her companion, and thus more likely to be carrying suspicious objects. There is a student here who received indirect religious insinuations against his faith only because he did not eat the meat offered at the meal as it was not prepared according to the doctrine of his religion. This same student had to be polite, for after all he is a guest here in this country. There is a student here who has lost family and a brother in the Palestinian conflict, and is held up as the poster-child of all those who espouse the peoples' cause in the Middle East, with none of these cause supporters realizing the extent to which other Arab nations ignore the Palestinian conflict, and how the other Arab nations abandoned the Palestinian people when they needed help the most.

Of course, even the least cynical reader at this point would probably point out that the only reason for all this rodomontade is basically that I didn't like the way I was portrayed in your article. I don't deny that that isn't true. Being the child of my parents, being at the hub of student activity, decision making, forum forming and outreach activities in my city in India, and being a person who quite snobbishly considers herself a hopeful intellectual—It was hard for me to be described by red highlights [now faded, I must state the truth] and ipod usage. In my draft, which was accidentally sent to you, there was mention of how I strongly protested my saying, ""I'm like, 'I don't do blues,' ". I stated that I would never say "like"—good god, the horror. You, in your polite and speedy response [thank you for that] said that you put it down verbatim which is why you included it in your article. I remain upset—For if that is the truth, as I'm sure it is, then America is affecting my English much more than I thought it would, which means I have to be extra careful from now on.

But seriously.

I reiterate: it is not that A received the lion's share of article time, and B was given a passing reference. I repeat, I am not one for paper rustling and name quoting. But my point is, why did you have to include me at all? Or rather, why did you have to leave out all the others? You could say that it was because you were only covering those in the Foreign Policy class. But then why refer to the group outside of the class, in the context of the scholarship, with no other points of reference other than Zainab and Lamya? Of course, I respect Zainab and Lamya as my fellow students and my friends. But I'm wondering if you could honestly feel satisfied with the authenticity of your article, when it was meant to be a feature piece on international students—all elements considered—and you leave out the bits about the rest of the group. And indeed, in writing about the class, how could you leave out the perspective of the other students or at least one other student who does take Partovi's class and is a full-time student here?

Again, I am not the professional journalist. You are. But here I am, making the case out for those who you didn't speak to, and who also have stories that must be heard.

Those who think Partovi's class is one of the few real forums for liberal, intelligent discussion of world events and views on campus.

Those whose parents fought for citizenship, and who have known what refugee camps are like.

Those who have known religious orthodoxy, and are learning to live in harmony with more than just that one point of view.

Those who lost family in the tsunami, and missed weeks of college traveling up and down the coast, contacting relief material suppliers, co-coordinating volunteers from around India and the world, meeting with district government officials, consoling families, holding fund-raisers.

Tell the whole story Shelby. Or if not, tell just one. And leave those of us who don't listen to the black eyed peas on their ipod and never will, and who dislike being used for the oomph factor, out of your stories.

But once again, thank you for your time and energy. Am sure that the PLUS program, Lewis & Clark College and The Oregonian all gained from the article. I apologize profusely if any of my views seem boorish, narrow-minded or lacking in imagination. I did however, have to say this.

Yours sincerely,

Priyanka Joseph.