My love story with the bottle did not begin at an early age. For i did not regale, at the bonnie age of a few months on the planet, at the thought of sipping lactogen. Today's litterateur might not find this name to ring a bell - but in my day this was the concoction that happy parents gave their unhappy progeny from the bottle at all points. I was able to consistently stave off, with mixed success, the continued efforts to fill me up with that foul fluid. I would concede that there were certain disadvantages of my diplomatic position, for i turned to be the weakling in my hood -however what of that when i knew that the bottle would be my calling another day.
Dont exactly recall when the the alcoholic ambrosia overwhelmed my attentions, but i can soundly guess that this was the NBT (next big thing) that had happened to me since the day i had occassion to feed thai chillis to my neighbours goat. Through its amber view i have seen things and experienced feelings hitherto unknown to my soma, and befriended characters that seemed distant and lonely. I had occassion to share a drink on the local train to my In-law's place with an gutsy girthy fruit seller who i shall never meet again for sure - and created memories that i shall forever treasure. Although, i would graciously concede that like all good things that come with their fine print, there are a few minor chinks in the consuming the ethanol with unbridled desire - but again we are mature enough to take the smooth with the rough. And when the smoothness emanates from the gentle brewing of the single malt, one can take a lot of rough in exchange.
But again,dont let me digress. As i was saying, i was introduced early and learned quick using my energies to bootleg the spirit from the hidden corners of household. There was a period when i could not make sense of why it was such a big deal - as gulping down the alcohol from my dad's bar did not really leave me with feeling that was especially nice. Moral has to count for something, at some point.
As another year draws to a close, and a dramatic one at that, reflections seem to seep into the drink i sit nursing by the crackling fireplace. No matter what they say, drink not to get away from but to get into.
Here is to getting away and into imprecision and good conversation in the flickering light. Cheers
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Motorcylce diaries
There is a whiff of positive energy in the economic indicators, and because my chinese brethren are starting to reconsume the fluid - the gas prices are up. Now that can never be a good thing for the meagre finances of third worldly household residing in the first worldly climes of silicon valley. Now one cant be bogged down by these travails of the new world order, so i bought myself a new motorcyle. The executive of the household signed off once it was assured that the risks of aforesaid decision had a been secured with a nice accidental death cover. Fair argument, I say - whoever said womankind was not reasonable was lying.
Returning to the subject of combustion engines, one has to do one's bit to reduce our carbon footprints. And Two wheels are better than four, although numerically four is greater than two in classical math (which makes me wonder, is there another kind?).
The machine looked mean and shiny when it arrived, as all new fascinations should be. Chrome in no small measure, and appealing to the chromosome that had been dormant awhile. So i jumped on the saddle, put on my riding boots and ignited the cylinders from TDC. RumBhakt roared into to the roads of perdition.
Well almost. Two ribs and clavicle didnt agree in a minor incident shortly thereafter. I am back to being wise again. But the fire burns.
Returning to the subject of combustion engines, one has to do one's bit to reduce our carbon footprints. And Two wheels are better than four, although numerically four is greater than two in classical math (which makes me wonder, is there another kind?).
The machine looked mean and shiny when it arrived, as all new fascinations should be. Chrome in no small measure, and appealing to the chromosome that had been dormant awhile. So i jumped on the saddle, put on my riding boots and ignited the cylinders from TDC. RumBhakt roared into to the roads of perdition.
Well almost. Two ribs and clavicle didnt agree in a minor incident shortly thereafter. I am back to being wise again. But the fire burns.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
366
I have never believed in looking back. Not because I could lay claim to not having made any serious errors in judgement over the years, but precisely because. Wounds will take time to heal, and we have often travelled too far down the other road. Who I was and how I saw things then would have hardly led me to a different direction, and very few things could have been done differently. Regrets take away valuable time. Where we stand is a sum total of our decisions, some good and a few bad.
Yet, after having downed a few stiff ones since the evening, i feel a sudden impulse to look back over the year that was. Would I have the heart to face everything that 2008 brought along, or would i forego everything i witnessed over the year in exchange for an unknown list of 2009 offerings. Given the power to permanently wipe out all the good and the many bad things in the year, that changed the way we live, love and lead - would i exercise that option?
The coverflow of "Images 2008" appears expansive, as i try to compress the three hundred and sixty six days. In closing the calendar and springing forth a brand new set of three hundred and sixty five , point two five - i struggle to put the year in a box. Where do I start, in the knowledge that the question of the end game is probably premature.
A year of Mega losses for the many in the glitzy world of complex financial instruments, credit default swaps and intrigueing instruments involving the second integral. Lost hopes and shattered dreams for thousands - with the gloom hiting home with family and friends. On the other hand, a year that closed with new hope for a few billion people who were yet again able to put food on the table for their malnourished children. Nothing in the world is absolute, they say - and somewhere it does seem like a zero sum game.
A year of an emerging dragon in another part of the world. In cleaning up the Bejing haze, almost as if by prevailing over mother nature, and in showcasing a blitzkreig -China announced to the world that impossible is nothing. Long before Obama popularized the now iconic "Yes we can", a sleeping dragon and a billion people had executed on the promise. A lanky american created history at the same event, swimming to a glorious victory of humankind over the other element of nature. There are six billion of us, and there are about six millions ways viewpoints to account for. But it is truly beautiful to see the unanmimous applause for the purity of the human spirit, and in celebration of six glittering medals.
But alas,the human drama played out beyond the sports stadium and took its toll. In the streets of Georgia, Gaza, Guantanamo and Mumbai - as human life was reduced to a mere bystander in a dramatic dance of isms, ideals and talking points. Beamed live to a different set of people who flipped their universal remotes to a different channel and tucked their children to bed, only hoping for a better tomorrow. Also hoping that someone else was going to ensure tomorrow is indeed, better.
The restlessness of youth took on the old guard and defied odds in the Americas , and a smart daughter of a martyred general takes charge in Bangladesh. That poor nation of hungry people unseated those that stood for fanaticizing their faith. Dont pray in my school, and i won't think in your church.
Years from now, i will remember exactly where i was when the young man spoke in a park in Chicago, and when a thousand men beat their drums to a rousing crescendo as the world watched in awe.
Some good men left us, but better men may have been born. Dont give up yet, go change the world - and you will see it changing for you. It may be better, or worse, but it will never be the same.
Happy New Year.
Yet, after having downed a few stiff ones since the evening, i feel a sudden impulse to look back over the year that was. Would I have the heart to face everything that 2008 brought along, or would i forego everything i witnessed over the year in exchange for an unknown list of 2009 offerings. Given the power to permanently wipe out all the good and the many bad things in the year, that changed the way we live, love and lead - would i exercise that option?
The coverflow of "Images 2008" appears expansive, as i try to compress the three hundred and sixty six days. In closing the calendar and springing forth a brand new set of three hundred and sixty five , point two five - i struggle to put the year in a box. Where do I start, in the knowledge that the question of the end game is probably premature.
A year of Mega losses for the many in the glitzy world of complex financial instruments, credit default swaps and intrigueing instruments involving the second integral. Lost hopes and shattered dreams for thousands - with the gloom hiting home with family and friends. On the other hand, a year that closed with new hope for a few billion people who were yet again able to put food on the table for their malnourished children. Nothing in the world is absolute, they say - and somewhere it does seem like a zero sum game.
A year of an emerging dragon in another part of the world. In cleaning up the Bejing haze, almost as if by prevailing over mother nature, and in showcasing a blitzkreig -China announced to the world that impossible is nothing. Long before Obama popularized the now iconic "Yes we can", a sleeping dragon and a billion people had executed on the promise. A lanky american created history at the same event, swimming to a glorious victory of humankind over the other element of nature. There are six billion of us, and there are about six millions ways viewpoints to account for. But it is truly beautiful to see the unanmimous applause for the purity of the human spirit, and in celebration of six glittering medals.
But alas,the human drama played out beyond the sports stadium and took its toll. In the streets of Georgia, Gaza, Guantanamo and Mumbai - as human life was reduced to a mere bystander in a dramatic dance of isms, ideals and talking points. Beamed live to a different set of people who flipped their universal remotes to a different channel and tucked their children to bed, only hoping for a better tomorrow. Also hoping that someone else was going to ensure tomorrow is indeed, better.
The restlessness of youth took on the old guard and defied odds in the Americas , and a smart daughter of a martyred general takes charge in Bangladesh. That poor nation of hungry people unseated those that stood for fanaticizing their faith. Dont pray in my school, and i won't think in your church.
Years from now, i will remember exactly where i was when the young man spoke in a park in Chicago, and when a thousand men beat their drums to a rousing crescendo as the world watched in awe.
Some good men left us, but better men may have been born. Dont give up yet, go change the world - and you will see it changing for you. It may be better, or worse, but it will never be the same.
Happy New Year.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
When i am gone....
When I am gone, don't cry for me O Father
For there were moments when i doubted if your love
and affection was unconditional
When I am gone, don't cry for me unborn Child
Because i did not bring you into this beautiful world - I was weak and
feared if you would be looked after with the same fondness
When I am gone, don't cry for me sweet Lover
When i doubted if Love alone was going to be enough
to see us through a lifetime - and did not hold your hand
When I am gone, don't cry for me dear friend
I was hiding in your hour of need - I know you forgave me,
but i never did.
When I am gone, don't play for me wild Musician
For not understanding the language of the notes, you had
wanted me to listen to your heart as you played
When I am gone,dont cry for me - O ticking clock
Should have known that you couldnt wait for me
Should have remembered that i was going to pass this way but once
When I am gone, don't cry for me - deep blue Ocean
For leaving at sunset as the night set in. Vastness did not need seeing, but feeling, your presence permeated the darkness
When I am done, don't cry for me beloved earth
For listening to those busy drawing those lines,states and nations
- i clung to my gun when you were smiles away
When I am gone, don't cry for me spartan enemy
After the battle was won, i did not stop to think why you had given it your all.
And for not saying sorry to those lifeless but determined eyes.
When I am gone, don't cry for me fellow traveller
The road I took was less travelled, not one never travelled.
When I am gone, don't cry. You remain wonderful
Related link:
http://web.cn.edu/kwheeler/epitaphs.html
For there were moments when i doubted if your love
and affection was unconditional
When I am gone, don't cry for me unborn Child
Because i did not bring you into this beautiful world - I was weak and
feared if you would be looked after with the same fondness
When I am gone, don't cry for me sweet Lover
When i doubted if Love alone was going to be enough
to see us through a lifetime - and did not hold your hand
When I am gone, don't cry for me dear friend
I was hiding in your hour of need - I know you forgave me,
but i never did.
When I am gone, don't play for me wild Musician
For not understanding the language of the notes, you had
wanted me to listen to your heart as you played
When I am gone,dont cry for me - O ticking clock
Should have known that you couldnt wait for me
Should have remembered that i was going to pass this way but once
When I am gone, don't cry for me - deep blue Ocean
For leaving at sunset as the night set in. Vastness did not need seeing, but feeling, your presence permeated the darkness
When I am done, don't cry for me beloved earth
For listening to those busy drawing those lines,states and nations
- i clung to my gun when you were smiles away
When I am gone, don't cry for me spartan enemy
After the battle was won, i did not stop to think why you had given it your all.
And for not saying sorry to those lifeless but determined eyes.
When I am gone, don't cry for me fellow traveller
The road I took was less travelled, not one never travelled.
When I am gone, don't cry. You remain wonderful
Related link:
http://web.cn.edu/kwheeler/epitaphs.html
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
A poem
I thought of reproducing a poem that touched a chord this morning.
Nothing Is Lost
Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.
"Nothing Is Lost" by Noel Coward, from Noel Coward Collected Verse. © Methuen Publishing, Ltd., 2000
Nothing Is Lost
Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.
"Nothing Is Lost" by Noel Coward, from Noel Coward Collected Verse. © Methuen Publishing, Ltd., 2000
Friday, October 19, 2007
Live strong
(Loosely based on his autobiographical books)
Two different human challenges and a common human stain running through both of them.
The first challenge, with fifteen million people along a journey spanning three weeks, covering mountains and riding into the rain. A simple objective, to cover a distance three thousand miles distance as quickly as possible – and still be alive at the end. It is an event that has endured for about a hundred years now that was started by a crazy Frenchman trying to outsell his competitor’s newspaper circulation. A place where your current standing is measured by the color of your jersey. Yes, I am referring to the Tour de France and the name Lance Armstrong. The latter has also come to become very familiar in the renaissance villas of the French countryside.
The second challenge also has a human element but in a more tragic sort of a way. It is also about a competition, to outlive and to out manouevuer a very real human condition. It is the dreaded C word – CANCER and it now affects a few million lives every year. There is almost an uncanny similarly between the tour and the disease – you go through stages in both of these thinking that it might be your last. You see your fellow competitors and fellow patients that drop out of the race or the fight. Lance Armstrong features in this challenge too – and is also a very familiar name in the corridors of the cancer wards in hospitals across the country.
Growing up in a faraway land, one of the first Americans I had heard about was another Armstrong,the man from Ohio who conquered the moon. Cycling has never been my thing, so it was not until recently that I came across this other Armstrong,and started learning about the man. The more I learned, the more I marveled at his story.
One day in 1996, in the prime of his youth,he coughed up blood and was diagnosed with cancer. It was already in an advanced stage and had spread into other parts of his body including the lungs and the brains – the doctors gave him a 50-50 chance of survival. In a matter of days he was in a hospital bed getting brain surgery and starting with an aggressive chemotherapy regimen. He was to take four months of chemo causing him to lose weight, hair, eyelashes and eyebrows besides his strength. Within a matter of weeks, one of his biggest sponsors decided to terminate his contract as their brand would not have anything to do with sporting icon who could merely walk. His career appeared to have had ended. He was not a superstar anymore, he was merely one of many that fighting for life. Cycling would come later.
His memoirs say that he learned a few things about himself during the time. The importance of love, friends and family. The joy of having a good day where a good day is where you don’t want to vomit. Of learning about children and kids with no eyelashes and shaven heads, yet happy and oblivious to their dreaded affliction. Of learning that you could lose your ability to be parents by getting a single vial of drug in your bloodstream. Of having to deal with a body that appears to be giving up and fighting at the same time. The days you are feeling sick – you are actually getting better. Of the need to treasure every moment, every day that you are alive.
He completed treatment went home with a hope that his cancer would not return. Cycling was his life and he wanted to get back to it - however being able to cycle again in his condition was unheard of. He was still going through the pangs of surviving cancer – of deciding whether his priority was to spend the rest of his life on the wheels. So he set about rebuilding from scratch. He trained for a while and showed up in some races here and there in 1998. His race results were not initially promising and it was unclear whether he had in him. So he dropped out of the tour in 1998 and went back to train in the mountains, alone. The same mountains that he had led his peloton in his pre- cancer days, only that it was to very different this time. He had matured as a person in his sense of harmony with himself and his aggression was less overt. Sometimes it helps to be an underdog instead of the star. And one day, during one of those 7-hour training days, he felt his rhythm coming back.
There has been no looking back since. He then went on to win the Tour de France in 1999 as a part of the USPS team and went on to continue his winning spree without precedent. If scripted in Hollywood, the story would be dismissed as melodrama: a deadly disease affecting a promising athlete. Despite desperately thin odds, he manages not only to beat the illness but also to emerge more powerful and return to the sport to win the top prize. Unbelievable, except that in this case it was true. He says that cancer is the most important thing that happened to him.
It is in rising from the ashes that defines character. It is in being afraid and then conquering the fear that you get a footing. I have lost loved ones to cancer and look forward to the day when they will find a cure for this defining challenge of our times. Unfortunately, until that time – no matter how hard we try – we will have to deal with the C word in friends, family and people we love and care about. It will never be easy to deal with such scenarios, but if you ever need something to hold on to – remind yourself of the amazing story of this Texan who battled it out in the piercing cold rain of the grey French mountains. And how he defied the odds.
Take Courage and Take Care.
Related link:
http://www.livestrong.org
Two different human challenges and a common human stain running through both of them.
The first challenge, with fifteen million people along a journey spanning three weeks, covering mountains and riding into the rain. A simple objective, to cover a distance three thousand miles distance as quickly as possible – and still be alive at the end. It is an event that has endured for about a hundred years now that was started by a crazy Frenchman trying to outsell his competitor’s newspaper circulation. A place where your current standing is measured by the color of your jersey. Yes, I am referring to the Tour de France and the name Lance Armstrong. The latter has also come to become very familiar in the renaissance villas of the French countryside.
The second challenge also has a human element but in a more tragic sort of a way. It is also about a competition, to outlive and to out manouevuer a very real human condition. It is the dreaded C word – CANCER and it now affects a few million lives every year. There is almost an uncanny similarly between the tour and the disease – you go through stages in both of these thinking that it might be your last. You see your fellow competitors and fellow patients that drop out of the race or the fight. Lance Armstrong features in this challenge too – and is also a very familiar name in the corridors of the cancer wards in hospitals across the country.
Growing up in a faraway land, one of the first Americans I had heard about was another Armstrong,the man from Ohio who conquered the moon. Cycling has never been my thing, so it was not until recently that I came across this other Armstrong,and started learning about the man. The more I learned, the more I marveled at his story.
One day in 1996, in the prime of his youth,he coughed up blood and was diagnosed with cancer. It was already in an advanced stage and had spread into other parts of his body including the lungs and the brains – the doctors gave him a 50-50 chance of survival. In a matter of days he was in a hospital bed getting brain surgery and starting with an aggressive chemotherapy regimen. He was to take four months of chemo causing him to lose weight, hair, eyelashes and eyebrows besides his strength. Within a matter of weeks, one of his biggest sponsors decided to terminate his contract as their brand would not have anything to do with sporting icon who could merely walk. His career appeared to have had ended. He was not a superstar anymore, he was merely one of many that fighting for life. Cycling would come later.
His memoirs say that he learned a few things about himself during the time. The importance of love, friends and family. The joy of having a good day where a good day is where you don’t want to vomit. Of learning about children and kids with no eyelashes and shaven heads, yet happy and oblivious to their dreaded affliction. Of learning that you could lose your ability to be parents by getting a single vial of drug in your bloodstream. Of having to deal with a body that appears to be giving up and fighting at the same time. The days you are feeling sick – you are actually getting better. Of the need to treasure every moment, every day that you are alive.
He completed treatment went home with a hope that his cancer would not return. Cycling was his life and he wanted to get back to it - however being able to cycle again in his condition was unheard of. He was still going through the pangs of surviving cancer – of deciding whether his priority was to spend the rest of his life on the wheels. So he set about rebuilding from scratch. He trained for a while and showed up in some races here and there in 1998. His race results were not initially promising and it was unclear whether he had in him. So he dropped out of the tour in 1998 and went back to train in the mountains, alone. The same mountains that he had led his peloton in his pre- cancer days, only that it was to very different this time. He had matured as a person in his sense of harmony with himself and his aggression was less overt. Sometimes it helps to be an underdog instead of the star. And one day, during one of those 7-hour training days, he felt his rhythm coming back.
There has been no looking back since. He then went on to win the Tour de France in 1999 as a part of the USPS team and went on to continue his winning spree without precedent. If scripted in Hollywood, the story would be dismissed as melodrama: a deadly disease affecting a promising athlete. Despite desperately thin odds, he manages not only to beat the illness but also to emerge more powerful and return to the sport to win the top prize. Unbelievable, except that in this case it was true. He says that cancer is the most important thing that happened to him.
It is in rising from the ashes that defines character. It is in being afraid and then conquering the fear that you get a footing. I have lost loved ones to cancer and look forward to the day when they will find a cure for this defining challenge of our times. Unfortunately, until that time – no matter how hard we try – we will have to deal with the C word in friends, family and people we love and care about. It will never be easy to deal with such scenarios, but if you ever need something to hold on to – remind yourself of the amazing story of this Texan who battled it out in the piercing cold rain of the grey French mountains. And how he defied the odds.
Take Courage and Take Care.
Related link:
http://www.livestrong.org
A time of celebration
(Originally written in the autumn of 2005)
Driving on Pacific Coast Highway–Route 1, the most scenic of roads in the United States, this time of the year – you are bound to notice the explosion of orange on the green farms. This, in preparation for the famous Half Moon bay Pumpkin festival. It is also the time that some residents of the Bay area, originally from half way around the world, look forward to a different kind of festival – Durga Puja. The quintessential Bengali obsession of celebrating the Puja is as strong here as any other place in the world.
The greater Bay area is where you would find the Golden Gate Bridge and Gay movement, the highest concentration of computer geeks anywhere in the world and the a treasured collection of Ray's original films at the University of California at Santa Cruz. A sizeable number of Bengalis call this place home, living out the American Dream in this hotbed of technology, freedom and creative thought.
At the time of writing, most resident Bengalis are likely to show up at one of the four Durga Pujas in the area. Four Pujas, you might wonder – and ascribe it to the infamous Bengali inability not to get along in a team. There is an upside to this apparent discord, in the options available to the pandal hoppers (and believe me, we do have the kind here too). So if you are booked with your daughter's soccer practice (all the girls appear to play soccer nowadays) on this Saturday and will not be able to make the anjali - try the one at Prabasi's next Saturday. And if you are musically inclined, and simply cannot take profusion of the Bangla band music that is taking over the scene – don’t go to the Chandrabindoo concert this Sunday and try the Bollywood night at Sanskrit’s next Sunday.
One of the contentious issues between the groups is the issue of timing - the "Panjees" were not really written keeping time zones and datelines in mind. So if "Shosti" happens to be at 4 PM Wednesday according to the Indian time – how do you do it living in the pacific time zone where it is 03:30 AM Tuesday night. Some have solved the problem by scheduling the Puja over the two days of that great American getaway - the "Weekend". Keep in mind that the great G.W Bush has not declared a "Dashami'r chooti" yet, but we are told that some enterprising ones are working on the maniac. Others claiming to be sticklers of tradition are actually accounting for the time differences and organizing their offerings on the actual calendar days prescribed by that great book (the Panjee - if you missed my train of thought).
Most other things though, remain the same.
You have the untiring organizers - putting in the hours to acquire the idols, stage decoration and management, sending the email invitations out, hounding the Indian grocers for sponsorship funds, and working up a grand crescendo of dhonoochi nach the end. The majority though are the numerous pandalhoppers – who show up on almost all days at all four locations hoping to catch a glimpse of the goddess, the gliteratti and the Junta. Some come for Anjali, some to support a friend that is performing – while some with the hope of to find friends that may be in the area. It is also the few times in the year when the women would show off their finest “Taant” – making sure that they are not seen to be wearing the same one at two different pandals. The metrosexual Bengali man has now taken after the Hrithik’s, or our own Rituporno – and is often seen sporting the long version of the Panjanbee with the “Chooni” thrown in. And in keeping with the other indomitable spirit of “adda” – continues to wax eloquence on the need to invest in the real estate in Rajarhat despite the fact that the only real estate the dude may have known is his inheritance in New Alipore.
Over the free khichuri for lunch, reminiscing with an old friend about how nice it was to drive through the VIP road before Salt Lake happened, slamming the leftist government back home, sitting through another rendition of “Chitrangada” and falling in love with Tagore all over again – Durga Puja continues to enthrall another generation of Bengalis far away from home.
Related Link:
http://prabasi.org/Main/www_prabasi_org.html
Driving on Pacific Coast Highway–Route 1, the most scenic of roads in the United States, this time of the year – you are bound to notice the explosion of orange on the green farms. This, in preparation for the famous Half Moon bay Pumpkin festival. It is also the time that some residents of the Bay area, originally from half way around the world, look forward to a different kind of festival – Durga Puja. The quintessential Bengali obsession of celebrating the Puja is as strong here as any other place in the world.
The greater Bay area is where you would find the Golden Gate Bridge and Gay movement, the highest concentration of computer geeks anywhere in the world and the a treasured collection of Ray's original films at the University of California at Santa Cruz. A sizeable number of Bengalis call this place home, living out the American Dream in this hotbed of technology, freedom and creative thought.
At the time of writing, most resident Bengalis are likely to show up at one of the four Durga Pujas in the area. Four Pujas, you might wonder – and ascribe it to the infamous Bengali inability not to get along in a team. There is an upside to this apparent discord, in the options available to the pandal hoppers (and believe me, we do have the kind here too). So if you are booked with your daughter's soccer practice (all the girls appear to play soccer nowadays) on this Saturday and will not be able to make the anjali - try the one at Prabasi's next Saturday. And if you are musically inclined, and simply cannot take profusion of the Bangla band music that is taking over the scene – don’t go to the Chandrabindoo concert this Sunday and try the Bollywood night at Sanskrit’s next Sunday.
One of the contentious issues between the groups is the issue of timing - the "Panjees" were not really written keeping time zones and datelines in mind. So if "Shosti" happens to be at 4 PM Wednesday according to the Indian time – how do you do it living in the pacific time zone where it is 03:30 AM Tuesday night. Some have solved the problem by scheduling the Puja over the two days of that great American getaway - the "Weekend". Keep in mind that the great G.W Bush has not declared a "Dashami'r chooti" yet, but we are told that some enterprising ones are working on the maniac. Others claiming to be sticklers of tradition are actually accounting for the time differences and organizing their offerings on the actual calendar days prescribed by that great book (the Panjee - if you missed my train of thought).
Most other things though, remain the same.
You have the untiring organizers - putting in the hours to acquire the idols, stage decoration and management, sending the email invitations out, hounding the Indian grocers for sponsorship funds, and working up a grand crescendo of dhonoochi nach the end. The majority though are the numerous pandalhoppers – who show up on almost all days at all four locations hoping to catch a glimpse of the goddess, the gliteratti and the Junta. Some come for Anjali, some to support a friend that is performing – while some with the hope of to find friends that may be in the area. It is also the few times in the year when the women would show off their finest “Taant” – making sure that they are not seen to be wearing the same one at two different pandals. The metrosexual Bengali man has now taken after the Hrithik’s, or our own Rituporno – and is often seen sporting the long version of the Panjanbee with the “Chooni” thrown in. And in keeping with the other indomitable spirit of “adda” – continues to wax eloquence on the need to invest in the real estate in Rajarhat despite the fact that the only real estate the dude may have known is his inheritance in New Alipore.
Over the free khichuri for lunch, reminiscing with an old friend about how nice it was to drive through the VIP road before Salt Lake happened, slamming the leftist government back home, sitting through another rendition of “Chitrangada” and falling in love with Tagore all over again – Durga Puja continues to enthrall another generation of Bengalis far away from home.
Related Link:
http://prabasi.org/Main/www_prabasi_org.html
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The problem with Chicken Tikka Masala and Bollywood
The problem with Chicken Tikka Masala and Bollywood is they are doing a fine job of misrepresenting what Indians eat and how Indians live and love.
Silicon Valley,California has more Indian eateries per square mile than Calcutta,India. All of these serve up a standard fare of curries that are uniformly red, hot and spicy. Many of the customers at these places are of Indian origin, and many others who are not - are continuing their exploration of culinary delights of the subcontinent. The Tikka Masala, has come to represent Indian cuisine to a sizeable chunk of these customers. Bring up the subject of Indian food, they are quick to express their love for Tikka Masala and Tandoori. No wonder that Tandoori was tomtomed to be the national entree of the English people in a recent survey on the island.
Now i come from a part of the India where nobody was eating Chicken Tikka Masala until twenty years ago. Twenty years later, the only people partaking of its delights are still marginal in comparison to the folks that are not. My grandpa, and this is true, never picked up a CTM on his way back from work at his day job in the East India company.
Bengalis do not eat CTM at home. They do not sing and dance around trees either, as Bollywood would lead you to believe. Neither do Tamilians and Gujaratis and Telegus. I can vouch for that.
Curry was and is an integral part of the cuisine, but a mild and flat fish curry that was never as colourful. We would listen to music, but of the genre whose inflections did not require gyrations of the pelvis. I wrote my first love letter in english, and was reprimanded by the elders for the mere expression of love in the handwritten letter. I shudder to think what would have happened had i decided to employ my oustanding skills on tree-dancing. As a point of clarification - this particular dance form has no relation to pole dancing, tree dancing was entirely invented in Bollywood and involves lovelorn characters running around huge barks. Never in my travels through the country, have i seen young boys and girls dancing in,on or under trains, roads and waterfalls. While in almost every Bollywood movie with a Boy-meets-Girl storyline, this is a recurring visual - with the female curves accentuated by glamorous and ornate dresses.
The true window into a society is through its popular culture and cuisine. There truly isn't any one thing called the Indian cuisine (see map above). Note that the map shows state of Kashmir in its entirety, for i am patriotic beef eating Indian.
Maybe art is not supposed to reflect the realities of life, and since film is an art form, Bollywood is free to choose what it wants to depict. Its just that it creates the perception disconnect, popular culture and mood may not be the best face of a nation. The masses had also wanted a certain Adolf many years ago.
Meanwhile, i will continue to defend the position that the land of CTM and Bollywood is not the land you have come to love or hate as India. Er, what land .....?
Related Link
http://www.cafedhaka.com/
Democracy is puzzling
Now that does not boggle the mind, does it.
Hear me out, my drunken brother, and ignore the vagaries of the EVM malfunction or the exercise of suffrage for a second. Lets talk about where we are truly taking ourselves in the exercise of that sacred right of universal adult franchise.
Given that democracy is about the rule of the majority, its true resiliency is measure by the rights of the minority. Its hallowed pillars are further strenghthened when the majority elect a minority to represent their best interests. You know a Benazir Bhutto, a woman who was elected prime minister in a country that was largely on the Islamic right. You know a Manmohan Singh, a Sikh prime minister, in a society that is seeing a rejuvenation of Hindu jingoism. In the recent past, you have read about Yuliya Tymoshenko in Ukraine too. All minorities in their respective rights, being chosen to lead a larger majority. Fairly, unequivocally and without a call to any of primitive human urges to go to war or annihilate a common enemy.
America, on the other hand, continues to amaze. It has made tall claims to be the best democracy, and rightly so in almost all cases. But what about minority representation in political leadership. Why have we been unsucessful in choosing a president from one of the minority segments of colour, sex or race? Even more intriguing is the relative sucess of minorities business life, with women leading many in the Fortune 500 list. The effect has simply not percolated to the fabric of political life and psyche. We have had an occasional Rice or a Powell, but they were not elected positions.
If corporate america can choose to have minority leaders at the helm, making decisions about their lives, the EPS and what products they consume - whats different in the political spectrum?
Why has the presidency been an exclusive domain of the white man in the United States, and third world nations with closed and impoverished demographies continue to elect minority leaders in a whim. The brits put a Thatcher in residence at Downing street, the point is conceded with the tenant list in the White house. It would be rather naive to argue that competent leaders have failed to emerge from the minority.
Will it be different this time? Will America make a point just to dispel any doubts on the fundamentals of its institutions. Are we mature enough as a people to let go and let the weaker individual show the way?
Obama or Clinton, that don't matter. The politics is unimportant.
Related Link
http://usinfo.state.gov/products/pubs/whatsdem/whatdm8.htm
Hear me out, my drunken brother, and ignore the vagaries of the EVM malfunction or the exercise of suffrage for a second. Lets talk about where we are truly taking ourselves in the exercise of that sacred right of universal adult franchise.
Given that democracy is about the rule of the majority, its true resiliency is measure by the rights of the minority. Its hallowed pillars are further strenghthened when the majority elect a minority to represent their best interests. You know a Benazir Bhutto, a woman who was elected prime minister in a country that was largely on the Islamic right. You know a Manmohan Singh, a Sikh prime minister, in a society that is seeing a rejuvenation of Hindu jingoism. In the recent past, you have read about Yuliya Tymoshenko in Ukraine too. All minorities in their respective rights, being chosen to lead a larger majority. Fairly, unequivocally and without a call to any of primitive human urges to go to war or annihilate a common enemy.
America, on the other hand, continues to amaze. It has made tall claims to be the best democracy, and rightly so in almost all cases. But what about minority representation in political leadership. Why have we been unsucessful in choosing a president from one of the minority segments of colour, sex or race? Even more intriguing is the relative sucess of minorities business life, with women leading many in the Fortune 500 list. The effect has simply not percolated to the fabric of political life and psyche. We have had an occasional Rice or a Powell, but they were not elected positions.
If corporate america can choose to have minority leaders at the helm, making decisions about their lives, the EPS and what products they consume - whats different in the political spectrum?
Why has the presidency been an exclusive domain of the white man in the United States, and third world nations with closed and impoverished demographies continue to elect minority leaders in a whim. The brits put a Thatcher in residence at Downing street, the point is conceded with the tenant list in the White house. It would be rather naive to argue that competent leaders have failed to emerge from the minority.
Will it be different this time? Will America make a point just to dispel any doubts on the fundamentals of its institutions. Are we mature enough as a people to let go and let the weaker individual show the way?
Obama or Clinton, that don't matter. The politics is unimportant.
Related Link
http://usinfo.state.gov/products/pubs/whatsdem/whatdm8.htm
A Binary Life, or is it really ?
Many years ago, i created software code in assembly language. This is the language of the Computer, and has a dictionary of two words. Yes, two words exactly. Its either a zero or a one, you are either a High or a Low, you are ON or you are OFF - you, in short, ARE or you ARE NOT.
Very Black and White, you could say.
You could never be in-between or in the grey zone. The Computing machine resembles another institution of our time in that regard, the great George Dubya of the promised land. Oneday he ordained from the house of elected representatives, that the world was either with him or against him. I have often wondered if he was ever an assembly language programmer, and whether his code had subroutines and detailed comments, and was easily outsourceable. Turns out that he got quite a few run time errors. But i digress.
The question that i am seeking the answer for is this : What would the world be like if all answers to questions were a Yes or a NO? What if there were no grey? Would it be a better place after all?
After many years of deep thought employing the services of grey matter - i have come to conclude that grey is not a good thing. Greenspan-speak is confusing, period. The housing market is doomed, the bubble will burst and Feds will fudge with the financials - these are undeniable facts of modern life. The world is hurtling along the wrong freeway because we are finding too many shades of grey in the signposts. Men and women in power (i included the fairer sex not because i am a sexist, but a feminist in full measure) are providing too many ambiguous answers instead of zeros or ones. Their leadership is grey and not strong and reflective of their convictions, which as my psychonanalysts friends tell me - are almost unfailingly binary. They have concluded already, but the pronouncements are not conclusive. Life is truly a zero sum game, where the resources are limited and the wants aren't, and conflict resolves to a win for one side - no matter if you put a glossy shrink wrap on the consolation prize. Captilalism was not founded on symbiotic relationships, for Marx's sake.
You live(One or you don't live(Zero), philistines can claim you may simply exist(Grey). You are right or you are wrong, philistines can claim that you weren't entirely correct. True, the context can colour the size of the one or the zero, but after you have made adjustments for all things and considered all perspectives - you have to come to terms to what it really was. One or a Zero. If you can't read, or are not an assembly language programmer, it is still a One or a Zero.
Life would be monchromatic in black and white, your colourful side might argue. But you would have brightness and black holes - instead of a dull grey signposts. Its a different matter altogether that you, as I - in full control of our respective faculties would gravitate towards them black holes. That would be keeping in line with our exploratory instincts, and of choosing the road less travelled. As we perish in that black hole, we would atleast be happy in the knowledge of having made an informed choice.
The President was right. I am with Him. Are you NOT?
Related link:
http://www.arl.wustl.edu/~lockwood/class/cs306/books/artofasm/toc.html
http://archives.cnn.com/2001/US/11/06/gen.attack.on.terror/
Very Black and White, you could say.
You could never be in-between or in the grey zone. The Computing machine resembles another institution of our time in that regard, the great George Dubya of the promised land. Oneday he ordained from the house of elected representatives, that the world was either with him or against him. I have often wondered if he was ever an assembly language programmer, and whether his code had subroutines and detailed comments, and was easily outsourceable. Turns out that he got quite a few run time errors. But i digress.
The question that i am seeking the answer for is this : What would the world be like if all answers to questions were a Yes or a NO? What if there were no grey? Would it be a better place after all?
After many years of deep thought employing the services of grey matter - i have come to conclude that grey is not a good thing. Greenspan-speak is confusing, period. The housing market is doomed, the bubble will burst and Feds will fudge with the financials - these are undeniable facts of modern life. The world is hurtling along the wrong freeway because we are finding too many shades of grey in the signposts. Men and women in power (i included the fairer sex not because i am a sexist, but a feminist in full measure) are providing too many ambiguous answers instead of zeros or ones. Their leadership is grey and not strong and reflective of their convictions, which as my psychonanalysts friends tell me - are almost unfailingly binary. They have concluded already, but the pronouncements are not conclusive. Life is truly a zero sum game, where the resources are limited and the wants aren't, and conflict resolves to a win for one side - no matter if you put a glossy shrink wrap on the consolation prize. Captilalism was not founded on symbiotic relationships, for Marx's sake.
You live(One or you don't live(Zero), philistines can claim you may simply exist(Grey). You are right or you are wrong, philistines can claim that you weren't entirely correct. True, the context can colour the size of the one or the zero, but after you have made adjustments for all things and considered all perspectives - you have to come to terms to what it really was. One or a Zero. If you can't read, or are not an assembly language programmer, it is still a One or a Zero.
Life would be monchromatic in black and white, your colourful side might argue. But you would have brightness and black holes - instead of a dull grey signposts. Its a different matter altogether that you, as I - in full control of our respective faculties would gravitate towards them black holes. That would be keeping in line with our exploratory instincts, and of choosing the road less travelled. As we perish in that black hole, we would atleast be happy in the knowledge of having made an informed choice.
The President was right. I am with Him. Are you NOT?
Related link:
http://www.arl.wustl.edu/~lockwood/class/cs306/books/artofasm/toc.html
http://archives.cnn.com/2001/US/11/06/gen.attack.on.terror/
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Making amends
Driving through the interstate on the way to work is the personal time of my day. I-280 is beautiful in the early morning, you see the fleeting remnants of the hallowed Frisco fog being burned down by the sun in the back drop of the golden california hills. I am also usually tuned in to the local public radio station during this twenty minute drive - for my daily update on what is going on with the wide world. It is also a time for assimilation and contextualizing, as i listen to who is perpetuating what under the glaring Iraqi sun in another part of the planet. And catching up on the lunch menu in the San Francisco unified school district.
Today, amidst all this news of mindlessness, there was mention of a statute that had been passed without much ado. It is called the Rosa Parks act and it provides for pardon for all convicted of violating a law used to maintain or enforce racial segregation. Rosa Parks had been convicted decades ago of refusing to give up her seat on a bus reserved for whites and was a spark that ignited a whole generation of civil rights activists. My grasp of american history is weak, and a lot of you may have a lot more on this story - but this simple piece of news touched a chord. I came to work and started looking up a little more on the subject in the major networks, but alas - the story had been under the radar for most of the major media conglomerates.
It is significant to note that Rosa Parks passed away last year, and this act will be used to strike off her conviction record posthumously in some obscure record book in a dusty old room. It will not make a material difference to any of our lives as we start the summer weekend following this lazy friday, but it made my day a little more wondrous. To think that we do need to dwell on the past sometimes, to make amends whenever possible and an affirmation that symbolism is sometimes more etheral and sublime than the numbers in the latest tax codes that money dot com churns out in colourful graphics.
A line from the quixotic John Quincy Adams, Jr, pleading for the slaves of the Amistad, immortalized in the movie of the same name, came to mind - "we are - what we were" - he had said.
Whatever it takes.
Related Link http://jurist.law.pitt.edu/paperchase/2006/04/alabama-legislature-approves-pardons.php
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