in the press club, with the candlestick

Weather in the Northeast U.S.

2012-01-31T14:43:00.003-05:00

Today, on January 31, 2012 at 2.50 p.m. I'm sitting outdoors, soaking in the sun, on this 64-degree-F day.

Unexpected and unbelievably welcome.

Monday Morning Ponderings

2012-01-09T12:11:00.001-05:00

I seem to be going through some sort of a quarter-life crisis. A little late in the game for that, but here I am, lost and unsure of what I’d like to do with my professional life. Journalism is starting to lose its charm, and no other career has stepped in as a viable alternative. Naturally this is all a bit disconcerting. I’ve never questioned my career choice and I’m not at all amused that I have to start at this age. All I can do now is hope that this is just a phase that will quickly be replaced by a more appropriate (and seemingly more manageable) mid-life crisis.

A Failed Experiment

2011-08-29T20:05:00.006-05:00

I suppose everyone has that occasional day or two in their lives when they’re bored stiff and can’t lift a finger to do anything that seems even remotely interesting. Today’s been one of those days. There’s a lot I could be doing, but because none of it’s dire, I can’t be bothered. As a result, boredom has reached such drastic heights that I’ve started to consider taking on new hobbies like embroidery and pottery. A sad state of affairs indeed. Over the last eight hours, I’ve read the news, I've watched the news, I've taken on the lives of the performers in Water for Elephants, I've read Architectural Digest (my new hobby) till I’m blue in the face, I've played with the by-now weary cat at regular intervals of 2.32 minutes, all to no avail. I’m still bored beyond words. It’s 9.09 p.m. and I’m ready for bed and have been for two hours. All this because at 11 a.m. this morning I decided to take a day off from work and live a little.
Few decisions have produced such unfortunate results.
(Excited to go back to work tomorrow.)

We Fly You to Great Heights

2011-08-22T07:05:00.002-05:00

You’ve been calling us racketeers, but we’re unsure why. Let’s review: We begin (not gypping you) from the time you book your ticket online (Online because you get charged for buying it over the phone.). Would you like to pick your seat, we ask. If yes, prepare to fork over a fee. If not, prepare to sit wherever we choose to seat you. If we do, that is. Sometimes we’ll choose to put you on standby, but not all of us do that just yet, so let’s hold off on going into that. Next, do you have bags? We’ll be charging you another fee if you do. It’s true we began by charging you to check in a second bag (we’ve begun calling it an extra bag) but now it’s just any and every bag you check in. You see we’ve been using the cargo hold to store all that food we won’t be serving you. Though we do still serve you peanuts. Quite literally sometimes. And that rule applies to absolutely all flights – those that are about an hour long and others that keep you up in the air for over six hours. If it’s domestic, it comes free of food (and now, apparently drinks too). Naturally you can’t get your own drinks, until after security, where the options are so much more limited, but that’s just the way things are. We’re a competitive business and what with fuel prices being so high, we’re having a rough time staying afloat. It’s true fuel prices are now a lot lower than when we first began nickel and diming you, but we’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and would rather not stop.

Thanks for flying with us. We hope to see you again soon.

08.06.11

2011-08-08T14:45:00.001-05:00

This weekend we experienced the best kind of musical fusion at an Arlo Guthrie-NSO concert. The sound of some of the most popular folk songs backed by a powerful orchestra was simply amazing. Naturally, for the last 48 hours, I’ve been trying my best to relive so many of those moments—the point in the concert when Guthrie sang Charlie Chaplin’s poem to his wife, the sound of falling rain outside as Time for Three played a jazz piece from New Orleans, the perfect amount of breeze that blew through Wolftrap as Guthrie sang “Goodnight Irene”—all to no avail. It’s simply impossible to hold on to a moment, and I know that in time I’ll forget the way I felt that night. I also know that new, equally magical experiences will replace this one, but until then I’ll mourn the passing of one helluva night!

Failed Experiment #1

2011-06-26T14:43:00.002-05:00

I’ve decided to cook more. So, today, Sunday, the 26th of June, I figured I’d start small with everyone’s favorite: Cilantro Chutney. Unfortunately, if everyone were to try my version of this healthy green chutney, they’d scramble off (not before dousing the taste with gallons of water) in search of other favorites.

I don’t know if I put too much salt, or too much lemon, or erred greatly on the side of yogurt, or all of the above, but all we have now is a bunch of cilantro that sacrificed its life for nothing, traumatized taste buds, and tea (just tea) for teatime.

Happy days are behind us.

06.13.11

2011-06-13T11:24:00.000-05:00

Remember this feeling: Of your editor telling you, what we do isn't journalism, and, two hours later, of reading a hard-hitting piece on the impact of climate change in Grist. And thinking, now that's journalism.

Issued after the 7/7 London bombings

2011-05-16T20:06:00.001-05:00

Security Levels Explained

The British are feeling the pinch in relation to recent bombings and have raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." Londoners have not been "A Bit Cross" since the Blitz in 1940 when tea supplies all but ran out. Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to a "Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was during the great fire of 1666.

Emily plays ...

2011-05-16T19:41:00.001-05:00

Love it (always have):

This is the hour of Lead —
Remembered, if outlived
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow —
First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

"After great pain, a formal feeling comes" by Emily Dickinson.

Gotta love it!

2011-05-03T09:59:00.001-05:00

Just your typical mid-morning email from your visiting parents:

Hi Divya,

Ma wants to know as to how to bend the vaccum cleaner.

Where are the brush and pan to pick up the rubbish?

Love,

Papa

Ode to a Breath of Air

2011-04-25T11:20:00.003-05:00

I have fond memories of those days when I could breathe. I always enjoyed the feeling of slowly inhaling, letting the oxygen rush in, cleanse the system, then slowly exhaling, and letting the carbon dioxide out. Not giving it another thought before doing it again ... taking the wonder of it all for granted. I long for those days when I could articulate my "m"s and better yet, see the look on people's faces as I distinguished between my "m"s and "b"s. Look at her go, they'd say, truly amazed. Today, I say "milk" and those same bystanders hear "bilk"; I call earnestly to my "mum" and they hear "bum". I ask you, when will it all end?

Not for another two weeks, at least. Today, the pollen count in DC is high and on Thursday, it promises to be very high. Until then, all the world's pollen will continue to reside in my narrow nostrils, my watering eyes, and my rather irritated throat. And that's just goig to hab to be the story of by life.

Desireless

2011-04-12T23:03:00.006-05:00

Et c'est cette chanson: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6PDmZnG8KsM. J'ai pas savais que le Gange est "the Ganga" en Francais. Mais c'est quoi: chez les jaunes? Oui, c'est aussi une vieux chanson, mais c'est pas un peu raciste?

La Pauvre Hardy!

2011-04-12T22:43:00.004-05:00

C'est une très belle chanson, mais un peu triste. Et très, très vieux. (goddamn *read in hot french accent* 1962!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1Y_7XjkJ0g

Happy, Shiny People

2011-03-25T12:06:00.003-05:00

Lately I've just stopped caring about work. Like just stopped. There's tons of work to be done, but I can't get myself to work on any of it. This could be what a burn out looks like, or this could be plain boredom. Or it could be both. Either way, I don't care.

And it's not just about work; it's about my profession in general. Yes, journalism has always been exciting -- reporting, editing, enlightening the world one perfectly crafted word at a time, but everything just seems a bit dull these days. In fact, last night I actually thought about a career in music. Fortunately or unfortunately I couldn't quite work out the logistics of that grand plan, and quickly dismissed it as just another fleeting whim.

Which brings us back to journalism. The only thing I've ever thought I'd be good at. The only career for me because you get to express yourself (with minimal editing, if you're lucky), poke around in other people's affairs, and get paid for it (insert loose definition of "paid" here). So what's the problem?

I really don't know. And at this point, I barely care.

To Pick Up and Leave ... Again

2011-03-16T23:09:00.003-05:00

It's time again to leave home to go home. Bombay, you've been beautiful. I'll miss you terribly you unruly, lawless, chaotic city, you.

This City by the Arabian Sea

2011-03-12T11:37:00.007-05:00

I'm starting to fall in love with Bombay all over again. Damn, it's such a crazy city in the most fantastic sort of way. There's a perpetual racket regardless of where you go, and nobody seems to care. Rather they thrive in this noise and chaos, and helpfully advise you to follow their lead. And so I have. Over the last few days I've literally gone with the flow of 13 million people, tapping into the old, forgotten Bombayite (still not a Mumbaikar) in me. I've assertively stuck my hand out and crossed a bustling road as 10 cars and autos race towards me, I've haggled till I'm blue in the face, and I've chit-chatted in Bombay Hindi with all and sundry (trusting no one, still). Today, I spent a long evening with childhood friends, and had the time of my life. Now I've come home to loud music being played at some neighborhood party that's broken through the routine of a somewhat quiet evening, and quickly destroyed all plans of sleeping early. But that's OK. 'Coz, damn, that's just Bombay. Everything is out of the ordinary, things rarely go according to plan, and, as long as you don't fight it, life in this mad, mad city has a way of working out rather perfectly.

An Exciting Time in Your Life

2011-03-06T12:20:00.005-05:00

Today I was reminded that it's critical to stand up to rude smurfs (polite terminology for obnoxious prick). If only others on my team remembered it too.

In other, less life-altering news, Bombay's on red alert these days, as security personnel prepare to counter potential terror attacks. The place is crawling with cops, some comfortably situated behind mile-high bags of cement, others peering out from easily visible camouflaged land rovers. All this because the World Cup cricket matches will make their way to Bombay next week, and authorities don't want a rehash of the November, 2008 attack. Apparently cops have also been quite active in ambushing any semblance of love (both, the slurpy and non-slurpy kind) on our otherwise cultured, traditionally sound streets. If a man and woman are holding hands, they're in for a rough time. It's just not what Indians do, y'see. (we do other things, but more on that some other time.)

Today has been a highly productive first-day-of-wedding shopping day. Already I'm tired of shopping, though, (never thought I'd say that), and I have another 10 days to go. This is why people go on honeymoons right after a wedding -- not to celebrate love (and hold hands, albeit rather discreetly in some places), but to recover from an exhausting experience. Fun and exciting for sure, but mostly exhausting.

Too bad I'm jetlagged, or I'd be asleep right now. Either way I'm off to calm my terribly frayed nerves.

O&O,
D

Wine 101

2011-02-10T22:17:00.001-05:00

So here we are, finally writing. We’ve been meaning to for a while now, but perfection got in our way. Now that several of our brain cells have been destroyed, perfection has tucked its tail between its legs and hobbled off. Needless to say, this post will be devoid of eloquence, perfectly crafted sentences, and thoughts of grandeur.

A lot has happened in the last year. And yes, most people will tell you that no news is good news, and hell yes, the news has been good. Now I’m in the midst of wedding planning (save for these days when I choose to put responsibility on hold) and day dreaming – oh so much of it. Now I’m in the midst of being a bride-to-be, where most people seem to ask me, “how can I help” and “let me be a part of your special day.” It’s all a bit surreal, because, even though most of the time I’m craving attention (the good kind), I don’t really know what to do when it knocks on my door.

Wedding planning is a world unto itself. There’s just so much to do. And yet, there really isn’t. If I were a wedding planner, with contacts, real contacts, I’d be done in two weeks. Then I’d stretch it all out to make my clients think they were getting their money’s worth. But, I’m not a wedding planner and so most of my contacts are based on rough Google searches and money-making wedding guide books that promise comfort in chaos. We’ve had our funny moments during this process. Like the time we went to the temple to meet the priest who wanted to marry us, and made it quite clear that the only other priest (the person we actually hoped would marry us) in the temple had a back that hurt, and therefore wouldn’t be much use (we met the man and his back seemed wonderfully intact). Or the time … well, really that’s been the only funny (and somewhat disturbing time) … all in all things are working out quite well (in a perfectly somber sort of way).

There’s not much else to report. I should be asleep because it’s 10.16 p.m. and I’m working off a rapidly depleting resource of brain matter.

I’ll delete this in the morning.

Cleansing that Aura

2010-12-07T20:28:00.006-05:00

I've just finished session 3 of my yoga-for-the-elderly class, and have decided to blog about it. First, a couple of disclaimers. These are fabulous people. All six to eight of them. They're more than I'll ever be at their age (more on that later). I've spent three hours over a span of three weeks with them, and already I'm a fan.

I learned about the yoga class over a year ago on one of those awkward, wish-I-didn't-live-on-the-16th-floor sort of elevator rides. I don't remember the source of the wish-I-didn't moment, but I do remember looking up to the (elevator) skies, catching a glimpse of the scroller just above the doors, and quickly getting engrossed in its contents. Somewhere between news about voting, the closure of the outdoor pool, a new-and-improved gym, and pilates classes, I saw a sign about yoga. Several months, and one new yoga mat later, I made it to my first class.

Lovely people. Just the best. They all shook my hand, asked me my name, and when they didn't quite get what a Divya was, kindly offered alternative names, which varied from Olivia, to Vivian, to what-was-that? After exchanging pleasantries, we settled down on our mats, stretched our muscles, relaxed them, released gas (some of us anyway), stretched some more, relaxed some more, and headed home. Session 2 was pretty much the same. We reviewed the minutes of Session 1 (did you say it was Olivia?), stretched, relaxed, fell asleep and snored loudly (some of us anyway), stretched, relaxed some more (albeit still a little less than some others of us), and headed home. Which brings us to today.

Today, we were down to five, including my lovely instructor (she's probably in her 70s, has traveled to India, done extensive yoga training, has something wonderfully calm about her -- she must have a spotlessly clean aura). She told us she was going to talk to us about breathing, at which point one of the four aspiring yogis raised her hand and asked if she could skip out. "I hate this breathing stuff," she explained. Two things popped into my not-yet-relaxed head: 1. That breathing stuff pumps in oxygen and pumps out carbon dioxide, which helps with the whole living thing that most of us seem to enjoy. 2. (perhaps less critical) That's 90 percent of what yoga's about. In any case, she was promptly told to "chill" by the woman sitting by her (meow?), which she was forced to do, because that's 5 percent of what yoga's about (more on the other 5 percent later). Not much else was different -- stretching, relaxation, release of gas, stretching, relaxation, home.

That's all for now. We'll have to see where this blog takes us.
Olivia.

warning: cheesy post ahead

2010-08-29T12:42:00.001-05:00

i.feel.loved.
(and gawd it's just so fabulous.)

In other news ...

2010-08-19T09:05:00.003-05:00

Working from home can get to be quite strange sometimes. As this very moment, for example, there's a construction worker, 16 stories off the ground, balancing precariously on a makeshift wooden platform, peering in through my bedroom window.

I don't like it. I don't.

Because.

2010-04-27T22:04:00.001-05:00

Let's put this day behind us, then. And hope that tomorrow's better.

holy son of a ...

2010-04-07T18:45:00.002-05:00

I'm having a bloody panic attack and there's no better time to blog than now, right now. It seems that nothing will go right today and most will tell you that when you have that horrible feeling of doom weighing down on you, you should consider taking deep breaths. I would except my sinuses are clogged with all the world's pollen. Breathe easy? I'd love it if I could just, plain, breathe.

And I can't scream because I'm in a library and they'll shush me. And let's be honest nobody likes to be shushed. So I'll blog. I'll blog about all the screaming and breathing I'd like to be doing right about now.

Pretend you owe me nothing

2010-03-10T22:02:00.006-05:00

It's always a glorious thing to feel that perfect little moment that quietly whispers in my ear, "everything, from here on now, will be soaked in magic." Tonight I felt that moment several times over.

On a somewhat-related note, Tom Waits is performing a little bit of magic right here.

2010-03-02T19:43:00.000-05:00

enough now, enough.

Madness will be.

2010-01-24T18:49:00.000-05:00

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles.
Jack Kerouac.

Wanted to Cry but You Can't When You're Laughing

2010-01-22T23:05:00.005-05:00

And so it's done. Two in a span of six months, pretty heart wrenching. You know it's the right thing to do though when the person sitting across from you says he would have done the same thing. You constantly tell yourself it's right precisely because of that. It doesn't make the pain less, it just reminds you of why you did it. Because in the next couple of weeks you're going to need to be constantly reminded of this: You did your best, you waited (and waited) and it wasn't enough.

It had to be done. And now it's done.

Good night.

28 and counting

2010-01-21T07:54:00.003-05:00

It’s a bit ridiculous how we trap ourselves in our own hideously constructed circles and then sob about how terrible our lives are. Add age (and fear of the unknown) to that equation and you have yourself an ideal situation to wallow in things you’ll do nothing to fix.

Not me. Not this time.

I suppose the first step is to start brushing the dust and rubble off, seriously this time. Then here's to risking it to see if there’s more to life. Because there has to be. There always has been.

2010

2010-01-01T02:45:00.001-05:00

... and then it picked up again. here's to taking control and making shit happen this year.

2010, I'm ready for you.

from New Year's Eve to New Year's Day

2009-12-31T14:10:00.001-05:00

The curse is getting stronger. It isn't even midnight yet and already New Year's Eve has let me down.

Well done, indeed.

London, my love

2009-12-19T09:58:00.005-05:00

12.11.09. Had an existential conversation with the immigration at London Heathrow airport. Well, existential for me, bit of a security concern for him. He asked me where I was headed and I said, "Home, U.S." Furrowed brow and what not he looked at my navy blue Indian passport and said, "I thought you'd say, 'home, India.'" I told him I was coming from home, India. Confusion pierced the air around us. He looked down at my passport again not having seen signs of dual citizenship and asked how long I had been in the U.S. I told him. "Oh, I suppose it is home for you then," he said, proud for having solved the conundrum of the hour. "There's some general confusion," I said as I hurried off with my stamped passport.

12.13.09. So here we are then back in London. Food poisoning stopped by my first night here and forced me to spend endless hours in the loo throwing up things I was sure I hadn't eaten. I'm more or less recovered by now and ready to bond with the family and shop till I drop -- both I intend to do rather passionately.

12.16.09. LHR Gate A 13 (Closest gate to the Duty Free Shop). Fine, so I might have found my perfume of the season. It's Issey Miyakie's L'Eau D'Issey. A close second is Gucci's Flora. Oh, hmm, just converted the cost of the Flora into the weak and watery dollar and it's 70-unholy-dollars. On to less burn-a-hole-in-your-pocket sort of things then.

I was lucky enough to see London's first snow of the season. Most lovely. Londoners seem to be a bit lily-livered when it comes to snow though threatening to shut down the city as soon as a few flurries hit the city's perpetually soggy streets. Now I'm sitting here watching planes slide on and off the tarmac as the snow outside continues to fall silently.

On a somewhat random note, I didn't know it was illegal to take photographs of airports in India. Unfortunate, considering most of my favorite (and rather similar looking) shots are of airports (in other countries) by day, night, sunset, moonrise, you get the gist. On that continued random note, I'll just say that I'll always love airports and the endless stories they hold, each one updated by the minute. They always give me that feeling of going somewhere, somewhere special, somewhere gloriously happy.

Time to lie down and look out through the incredibly large glass windows. Surprise me, London. Show me a color other than gray.

12.something.09. Home.

chronicles of ~d~

2009-12-09T22:11:00.001-05:00

it's time to say goodbye again, bombay. you've been beautiful.

A Man And His Jam Are Soon Parted

2009-12-05T22:07:00.002-05:00

Darn! Gotta dash. (One might wonder why I logged on if I had to dash off in 3 seconds). More on the man (my dad), his jam (his jam), and airport security later.

5.16 a.m. Time to Wake the Rooster

2009-11-30T18:34:00.003-05:00

right ho, this has got to be quick-- our cab gets here in 25 minutes and I've been assigned several (mostly unnecessary) tasks between now and then. (Erm, my dad just said "chalo" -- wonder if we're planning to walk to the airport.)

So, we're off to Goa today. I'm so excited I haven't slept much. Of course that could be the jetlag that continues to plague me. I've had the --some would say previlege-- to hear that darn rooster crow every morning. Today, like any other day since I got here, I finally hopped outta bed at 3.40 a.m., turned on the computer, did yoga for 10 minutes (handy tip of the day: cleanse the aura as you wait for your computer to turn on, pray to the yoga gods for a new computer), then hopped into the shower. I've been ready to GO for about an hour now.

Bombay's been fun so far. I've bonded much with the parents and the aunts and uncles (they're a rather bright, somewhat cynical lot), eaten to my heart's content (by now I'm on a self-imposed okra hiatus), and twisted several muscles outta shape in vague attempts to achieve balance or some such thing in my body. (Eeep just got assigned another task before we "chalo" on outta here)

I'm curious to know what domestic travel is like here. When I got into Bombay airport, I breezed through immigration and swine flu screening (yes, it's true), spent about an hour and a half at baggage claim, then was asked to walk right past (not through, past) customs because I was traveling light. Not the safest, albeit good samaritan-like, move on the part of the customs officer but you won't hear me complaining.

So much more to ramble on about but it looks like I've gotta dash.

O&O,
Divya

oh bloody jetlag

2009-11-28T19:13:00.002-05:00

seriously? you'll wake me up at 3 a.m. to tell me you're done sleeping? SERIOUSLY? do you know who you're messing with?

They say honesty, dahling, is a wonderful thing

2009-11-27T09:26:00.002-05:00

Met my friend after ages. The first thing she said to me? "You've gone SO fat -- you even have a paunch."

Erm, yes, the silver lining to that (because there's ALWAYS a silver lining) is that apparently I look so obnoxious that she didn't have the heart to get to the follow up question: "So, when are you getting married?"

Coz no one would want to marry a fat frump with a paunch. No siree bob.

::phew::

bhindi, YEAH

2009-11-27T03:01:00.002-05:00

and other absolutely delicious things for lunch. sigh, sigh, happiest sigh in the whole wide world!!

Are You Alright, Mum?

2009-11-27T01:05:00.004-05:00

7.25 a.m. Thanksgiving in America.
Good morning, London. I saw you in your golden, glittering beauty as we touched down just before the crack of dawn. Now here we are in the pink morning sunlight waiting to shift gears once more. 3,669 miles down, 6,000 to go. First I'll have to get me a cuppa tea.

Alan Carr (is that his name?) is a funny guy. This flamboyantly gay stand up comedian from Manchester kept me reasonably entertained on my flight (on video, of course). Once I figured out his accent, I giggled all the way over the Atlantic stopping only to silently scorn the man in front of me who embarked on a deep, deep dig into his ears. Once the treasure was found (and by the look of it there was much to be had), he generously sprinkled it along the aisle. Back to less obnoxious gestures though, Carr mocked the sporting skills (or lack thereof) of his countrymen reminding his audience of the token Ethiopian runner who beats everyone in the Olympics while the Brit contestant can be spotted stumbling along with an egg in a spoon. Funnier when Carr said it, but funny still.

There's something to be said for Heathrow airport. It's all jazzed up even at 7 a.m. The strange thing has always been the sudden demographic shift from the flight to LHR. More Indians than ever before all speaking in incredibly thick Brit accents. I suppose I can relate -- I have one prepared without ever having lived here ready to be whipped out for just such ocassions.

It's 2 a.m. my time and I really should be asleep.

O&O,
~D

1.34 p.m. Nov 27, Eid.
Home.

nothing to see here.

2009-11-11T07:46:00.002-05:00

I haven't slept very well in the last week. Because every night I climb into bed hoping the morning will roll around in no time. I can't tell if it's because I'm starting to fear the dark again or whether I want something to hurry up and happen. I don't think it's the former, and if it's the latter I have no idea what that something is. All I know is that some unknown element of my life feels a bit incomplete and every night I hope the next morning will hold the answer.

No luck, still.

Harold Pinter's Weather Forecast

2009-11-09T18:23:00.003-05:00

The day will get off to a cloudy start
It will be quite chilly
But as the day progresses
The sun will come out.
And the afternoon will be dry and warm.

In the evening the moon will shine
And be quite bright.
There will be, it has to be said,
A brisk wind
But it will die out by midnight.
Nothing further will happen.

This is the last forecast.

2009-10-11T00:48:00.002-05:00

1.48 a.m. can't sleep. dunno why. wish i was home. not quite sure where that is. closer to mama and papa.

soon.

She Lives.

2009-10-08T20:12:00.003-05:00

That wasn't in the least bit thrilling and I'm convinced it was fate's (more on fate later) ploy to get me out of my PJs. Here's what happened, loyal readers (consider this a shout out, Michael!) So I peer out and see most of the building downstairs. Being a fan of the herd mentality I start to wonder if I should be part of this "communal gathering at 9" as well. I head to the door knob for another one of my foolproof touch-and-sniff tests when I smell smoke. (At this point, I rush back to my laptop, type in the last line of my earlier post), throw on some jeans (no I WILL NOT run down 16 floors in my PJs even if my hair is on fire), and begin running down the corridor, miss the fire exit, run back, then run down to the theme of "this piercing fire alarm". All the while I'm thinking, damn I should have brought some tissues, what if I have to sneeze on someone, gawd am I the last one out, will I make it out, how cold is it outside, when on Floor 11 the alarm stops. Of course I knew this would happen -- I was thinking more like Floor 5, so I curse the world and fate (still more, later) in general and start to make my way up. When, once again, the alarm goes off. So I turn right around, resume my quest for silence in the open air, when, on Floor 10, it's off again.

That's it. I hobble back up, hear my neighbors TV (they never left despite the smoke and caterwauling), throw on my PJs, and get back into bed.

And that's been all the exercise I've had all day.

The original point of wanting to write a blog post was to mull (in words) over my wonderful plans home. Once I get my visa and tickets, of course, I'll be heading home and then to the UK. While I'm home I get to visit Goa after donkeys years which should be fantastic as well. The last time I was in Goa was in 2000 -- my friends and the rest of the world (no, seriously) were there to celebrate the millenium or for those in a ridiculously inebriated state (consider this your shout out, Vids!... note to self: beg Vids to read this post)-- millium. Now I'll be going in all sobriety, with the parents, to celebrate those fantastically sandy beaches, warm waters, and everything that's right with the world. Then to the UK to celebrate some of the world's best shopping sales. Oh and celebrate fam, of course.

This is all provided things go as planned. This would be the point I'd talk about tempting fate and what not but since the time the fate-bashing thought was planted in my head (roughly 10 minutes ago) and now, I seem to have grown more lily-livered and thought better of it -- so only positive shout outs to fate.

That's all there is to that then. Back in the present, the fire trucks have left, silence ensues, sleep continues to evade, and everything is back to being A-OK.

2009-10-08T19:57:00.002-05:00

It's almost 9 p.m. and I've been in bed attempting to get some ever-elusive sleep for a while now. Doesn't look like it's about to happen so I hop out, grab my laptop and begin mentally crafting my first line for my blog post. And while I'm doing that the building fire alarm goes off. This not only means that I have to jump out of my PJs and into more respectable attire (although any well-trained foreigner knows that you've got to drop everything and run -- embarassing nightware or not) but also that I'm now expected to run down 16 floors, stuffed sinuses, weak-willed, and what not. Sure, that's going to happen. So, like any self-respecting foreigner I touch the door knob (feels cool enough), look for smoke under my door, peer out of the window for signs of smoke in the next building, and hop back into bed. The alarm's still shouting at me to quit this path of least resistance, the fire trucks downstairs seem to be saying the same thing, and I'm having one of my best existential crises in a long time.

Time to peer out one more time.

DAMN I gotta go.

Take 2

2009-10-07T16:17:00.001-05:00

to pick up and leave.

this thing you've called life.

2009-10-05T22:05:00.005-05:00

right so i caved. in more ways than one. how does it matter? what the heck even matters? i'm so tired of trying to make shit work. i shouldn't even be posting this on the I-net but again, how does it matter? everything's just plain horrible right now. and i have no faith. none.

life, i dare you to prove me wrong this time.

go
right
ahead.

2009-10-05T21:47:00.001-05:00

Goddamn the Puppeteer.

2009-09-06T17:55:00.003-05:00

ok then, the schizophrenic in me has resurfaced and ordered me to get the heck GOING!
my organized side has had me make a list.
(hope reigns supreme.)

2009-09-06T16:47:00.003-05:00

i have to say that one of the hardest things i've ever dealt with is being so incredibly far from my family. for the first time in five years, today, i regret coming here. because nothing (nothing) is worth this feeling. of not knowing when i'll see them next, and when i do, knowing that it won't be for more than two weeks.

good morning, midnight.

2009-08-17T23:02:00.003-05:00

Another beautiful summer night. It's about midnight and I've just about gotten home. Sleep is as evasive as ever but it's just a gorgeous night to be awake so I'm not really complaining. There's hope now and some semblance of energy that should get things moving in the right direction. Letting has been harder than I thought and I have no one else to blame but myself.

Here's to another night that promises of a brand new morning.

hold that thought ...

2009-08-14T08:37:00.004-05:00

very nice:
Getting over a painful experience is much like crossing monkey bars. You have to let go at some point in order to move forward.
-- Author Unknown

I remember, as a child, playing endlessly on those monkey bars and having the skin on my hands peel right off because I held on too hard. Is there a lesson in here somewhere?

(Aah, yes ... avoid those darn monkey bars. Play hopscotch, instead.)

10.21 p.m. any day, anywhere.

2009-08-05T21:21:00.001-05:00

Life you funny little thing: You’ve kicked me hardest when I’m down yet you’ve lifted me to unfathomable heights. Tonight I’m sitting here, at rock bottom in my 16th floor apartment balcony, living through this maelstrom of emotions and there’s nothing I can do but hold on tight hardly knowing where you’ll take me next. Life you funny little thing: you’ve taught me to improve on everything that I believe in yet you threaten to take it away in a single instant. Life, you odd little ball of uncertainty, you’ve shown me things that I would never have dreamed of and promised me the world of happiness never telling me when it will be mine and when it won’t anymore.

Today’s been a rollercoaster. What started off with the sight of a friend’s tear-stained face in the morning, unraveled into a series of inconsequential, then high-strung, then inconsequential moments. Difficult decisions plagued my mind, sometimes giving me strength, other times just barely seeing me through. All this as I did my best to function for an office-full of seemingly functional colleagues. Today, life reminded me that I will never know what lies around the corner. And whether that’s a good thing, or whether rock bottom from the 16th floor is still rock bottom, the truth is this: that’s—just—life. I’ll just have to do the best I can, then sit back and watch the moon rise.

godot would know

2009-08-05T11:50:00.003-05:00

for some odd reason, this quote has been playing and replaying in my head all morning:
The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

(today, my friend is going through a rough patch which has kept me from fretting about my own life)

::wanted to cry but you can't when you're laughing::

2009-07-12T16:57:00.000-05:00

(my new fave mantra)

Voices

2009-06-28T09:22:00.000-05:00

Voices in my head,
Chanting, "Kisses. Bread.
Prove yourself. Fight. Shove.
Learn. Earn. Look for love,"

Drown a lesser voice
Silent now of choice:
"Breathe in peace, and be
Still, for once, like me."

- Vikram Seth

Under Water

2009-05-18T19:21:00.001-05:00

(A snippet of something I wrote in October 2005 as my city lay submerged under water.)

The sea roared. Rain lashed incessantly against the buildings seeping into houses with cracks and crevices. Water levels outside rose and road after road resembled a long winding river, chocolate brown and caked with mud and grime, gushing through main streets and narrow alleys. The city would remember this season well.

“Bombay has too short a memory,” Preeti Gopalkrishnan says, already bitter about her city. “You can come back six months from now and everything will be status quo.”

I nod silently. My city thrives on a high level of complacency. It’s the country’s melting pot and in this pot is a fine blend of poverty, crime and disinterest. Everyman goes about his daily life, stopping only to spit in the nearest corner or shout an abuse at a co-passenger in the crowded 9 a.m. local train. Scuffling, pushing and just barely surviving: this is Bombay and here is the life of her people.

Twelve explosions tear through the city, killing more than 300. The first blast rocked the Bombay Stock Exchange. Eleven more major detonations and several minor ones, most caused by car bombs, shook the center and some of the suburbs of India's largest city. (Associated Press, Friday, March 12, 1993)

Twenty-five people were injured in a bomb blast at McDonalds fast food restaurant at Mumbai Central railway station. The bomb was planted in the airconditioner duct. It was suspected to be a crude bomb. (rediff.com, December 6, 2002)

Torrential monsoon rains have returned to the Indian city of Mumbai (Bombay) as it tries to recover from flooding that has left nearly 900 dead. (BBC, July 31, 2005)

It hasn’t been easy. The complacency forms a shield from the city’s constant beating. Whether it’s an outside attack or an inside war, strikes that leave the city reeling, also help her get to her feet quickly and surely, and resume life in her detached manner.

And so on July 26, when the dark clouds shed themselves of their weight in water, the city didn’t react as quickly as it should have.

“I stayed around in office and wrapped up the day’s work,” Malini Dutt, relationship manager of the Unit Trust of India Bank said. “Given that I live five minutes away.” When she finally left, the city was submerged. She began her otherwise short journey home; wading through waist deep water, feeling for pot holes in the road.

Meanwhile, her mother sat anxiously at home. She tried opening the door to her balcony to watch for her family but the rain lashed heavily against it and the wind banged it shut. Outside, it was dark and the afternoon resembled a late evening long after the sun has set.

Dutt reached her building two hours later but her twin sister wasn’t as lucky. She didn’t work as close and needed a train to take her home. She wasn’t to get one for another 48 hours.

By the time the city realized the seriousness of the situation, it was late. Almost too late. Cars were jammed for miles, public transport had come to a screeching halt and people had resigned themselves to the prospect of spending the night on the streets.

By the next day, things were worse. Incessant rain caused the water to rise further and people who had spent the day and night outside decided to stumble home. Some were stuck in their cars; others couldn’t wade through the floods. Some suffocated in their vehicles, others drowned under water. Public transport had shut down completely. The All India Radio reported 150,000 people were stranded at railway stations across the city.

2009-04-20T14:54:00.001-05:00

Sometimes ambition can be a very painful thing.

Well Thought Out

2009-04-12T14:43:00.000-05:00

The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly. (Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah)

Lately I’ve been drawn to books with a common theme. “What Would You Do If You Had No Fear,” “The Secret,” and “Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah” all seem to be telling me the same thing: to believe in the power of good, to envision my life in a certain way and so it shall be, ask and you shall receive. The truth is I want to believe. It’s such an empowering feeling to think that I can will things in my direction or away from me. That the universe is working to keep me happy. That happiness is the default setting in each of our lives. I want to believe but it’s hard when people are dying of cancer or bullet wounds. It’s impossible when I walk by a homeless man in Georgetown bundled up in the freezing cold. Why won’t he just wish happiness upon himself?

The thing is I think he’s probably doing it every minute of every day. He can’t be wishing for much else. Tough stuff. Yet in my life whenever I’ve had these positive days when I expect things to work, they have. There’s something about my frame of mind when I set out to reign supreme that forces me to believe that we’re spending too much time and energy expecting things to go wrong. I wonder then if it’s true – that happiness is meant for each of us and anything different is an exception to the rule.

I certainly have the privilege to mull over these existential questions while others are out living them. I want to believe. I really, really do.

New Soul-ish

2009-01-18T16:50:00.015-05:00

December 28,2008
10.30 a.m. or thereabouts.

I boarded the plane in DC last night. Today, eight hours later, I've seen the sun rise over Amsterdam and I'm now waiting to board my nine-hour flight to India. I'm unsure of where I belong. I search the faces of my Indian fellow-travelers for clues of some sort and find none. I look toward the stray foreigner and smile. Nothing there either. All of a sudden Yael Naim's New Soul streams through the speakers. The world feels familiar again.

January 5, 2009
Sometime in the afternoon.

She looked at my backpack, then said. "You look like a traveler. Where are you from?"
"Here," I replied.

It's true my backpack looked big and heavy. It had two bottles of water, a Best of P.G. Wodehouse, music, an organizer, emergency toilet paper, and a hand towel.

"Who are you visiting?" she asked. "My mother."
"Oh, I'm sorry."

I was too.

The previous night my mother had tripped in the dust and rubble that's spread like a thin permanent film over Bombay and broken her ankle. In excruciating pain she was rushed to the ER -- also known as the casualty ward -- of one of the city's finest hospitals where she waited for close to 25 minutes as doctors pondered over the state of her ankle. She had broken two bones. They would have to operate as soon as the swelling went down.

January 6, 2008.
It's 5.30 a.m. and Wodehouse no longer appeals to my literary senses. Instead I pick up odds and ends of my mother's conversation with the nurse as she's being given a spongebath. They're discussing the state of the city's roads. Yes, they're terrible, the nurse sympathizes with mum. There are seven other fractures on this hospital floor. How many are the result of broken roads and a crippled system?

January 14, 2009.
8 a.m. local time, Amsterdam.

That was one of the heaviest cheese pizza slices I've ever eaten. I'm contemplating getting a coffee to clear the clogged arteries but the Euro intimates me so. Althought it's not all that much against the now weak and watery dollar -- a pleasant surprise that came with a euro 1.99 or $2.71 tulip-shaped-wooden-bookmark purchase.

Schiphol Airport is bustling with life even at 8 a.m. I've explored all discounted stores that are spread across this brightly lit marble coated floor. I'm dead beat from the nine-hour flight and exhausted at the thought of an additional 12 hours of travel. My brain is urging my body to crawl under a table -- any table -- and sleep the hours away. Social grace stops the two in time.

It's been a rough trip. I can't write anymore. I'm just too tired.

Lawrence

2008-12-05T17:31:00.002-05:00

(From an earlier trip to the good ol' midwest)

I heard, “I’m really looking forward to Palin’s speech, this evening.” I thought, “Welcome to Kansas.”

Lawrence, KS. It’s about 10.30 p.m. local time and I’m a bit beat. It’s been a long day and I’m curled up in one of my two queen size beds in my queen size Marriott Hill Suites suite. I’ve been down Mass Ave by night and I’m rather thrilled at the thought of seeing all of it by day tomorrow. There’s a store called Stitch On, something about a spinning wheel, something else that’s a Waxed Thing (sells candles, no less), and then the more familiar Borders, Starbucks, even Claires! Tried the best Cheddar and Ale (basically the two main ingredients) soup, and wolfed down chicken tenders (which sadly weren’t as good as the chicken tenders in Columbia, MO and so my quest to match those continues)

A river rolls along silently outside my hotel room and I can only see glimpses of it in the night light. I haven’t seen as many stars as I hoped to in this quiet, dimly-lit student town but then maybe I haven’t looked long enough. I hear the bellowing horn of a goods train at regular intervals. There’s a lot to learn about this town of who-knows-how-many people. I know there will be more to it tomorrow.

Goodnight Lawrence. Glad to be here.

Society of Environmental Journalists, 2008

2008-10-17T05:54:00.002-05:00

Wednesday, Oct. 15, 5.15 p.m.
We’re not very far from Roanoke but that could be something my brain is telling my legs to keep them from kicking the passenger seat in the front. We’ve been driving for four hours now so my brain can’t be all that wrong. This will be my third SEJ conference and every year I look to it with a little more anticipation. Every year I make a secret promise to be more social, more cheery, and a lot less of a recluse. The trick, I’ve discovered is not to turn on the pressure; not right away at least. You’ve got to ease yourself into the networking bubble as it expands over the week and before you know it you’re submerged.

Here’s to meeting everyone I missed last year.

Friday, Oct. 17, 6.53 a.m.
Quick note: alcohol does wonders with the easing process! (Hangovers don't)

Sunday, Oct. 19
We're leaving behind red and orange trees that sparkle under sunny blue skies. The colors are a lot more vibrant than they were when we first drove into this part of Virginia. I can relate—I'm leaving Roanoke feeling a lot more charged and passionate about my profession and my urgent responsibilities as a member of this profession.

Every minute of this trip has been a learning experience. I've enjoyed meeting people who are fiercely attached to their land, their homes, and their rights. People, who as several claimed, are putting their lives in danger by battling against power. I've met people who have strong and forceful opinions regardless of what end of a spectrum they're at. Everything I've heard over the last five days has moved me in a way that's made me feel empowered and proud to be a journalist.

Here's to another very successful SEJ conference. It's truly an honor to be part of this Society. Now it's time to get to work.

The Case of the Missing Indians

2008-09-26T14:06:00.002-05:00

I was beginning to get worried. I had called all nine numbers listed on the Indian consulate website and not one phone was answered by a real, live human being. (Talk about Audix having to work overtime.) I began to wonder if a plague had swallowed the building whole, or perhaps the cafeteria lunch had done some serious intestinal damage forcing those people to stay “away from their desks” for extended periods of time. So I tried calling the top dogs of the consular services – yes, their phones rang, yes, I heard a personal message introducing themselves to a no-longer-worried-just-plain-frustrated Indian on the other end, yes, a polite Audix associate encouraged me to leave a message, no I couldn’t—their mailboxes were full!

While I was sitting at my desk, screaming curses at each one of those evasive people, a colleague popped by to help. He called the general help desk then punched in his three (not-so) favorite numbers—123. The phone rang, and rang, then rang some more. Audix has quit. He tried again. Dialed the general number, hit the three most ominous numbers he could think of—666. After three rings, a woman picked up. Mellow hindi music was playing in the background, she was real, I was ready to have a real conversation.

The devil had come through for me.

Day 5 after Day 1

2008-09-08T21:58:00.007-05:00

Lawrence: A bend in the Kansas River leaves this town of 70,000 people more defined, more unique. The University is known for its art department whose talent has spilled on to the streets--carefully designed sculptures and brightly painted benches are strewn about town.

That's all I have now. It's been three days since I returned and already the trip is a blur.

To Pick Up and Leave

2008-08-29T18:29:00.003-05:00

Nobody said it’s easy being away from home. Especially when your head’s spinning and your body’s burning up in a fever—that’s when it’s the hardest. And that’s when even the most self-reliant person feels most lonely.

I wish I could go home just for the weekend. (That wouldn’t be the best idea, of course. The fastest way would be to fly to NYC, then jump on the non-stop 16-hour-flight to Bombay, say hello to a rather shocked family, exchange a few quick hugs and kisses and then pop back on the flight to make it back in time for work on Monday.)

Because with every sunset I miss home more. Every thing reminds me of home even if it doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to that place I grew up in. Chilly mornings and fall colors remind me of weather in my tropical country; warm summer days remind me of winter holidays in the Nilgiri Hills—there’s no logic, no notion of place, only nostalgia.

A sign that I’ve been away too long. And I know it’s time to leave the life I’ve built in the last four years because all it is now is an empty room with beautifully painted walls, and art that’s unique to me and my experiences. But I’m afraid I’ll miss this emptiness and solitude and that’s kept me here for longer than I’ve wished. Because what’s harder than going home is leaving a place you’ve called home for almost half a decade knowing you’ll never return.

A Crunch in the Gravel

2007-12-10T14:04:00.001-05:00

Where would you like me to begin?
At the very beginning.

It was late afternoon, long before the sun would melt into a Missouri summer night, when the shuttle eased its way off Route 66. I was in the far back watching a new world speed by at 80 miles per hour, slowing down only to let a passenger off. And then it was my turn.

"Here we are, 1606 University Avenue. Which one's your house?"
"I don't know."
"This must be it."
"Yes, maybe, yes."
Can you handle your bags?"
"Yes, I think so, yes."

Columbia, Missouri. I had never heard of it before it heard of me. And then, within a few months, this town of 100,000 people had a name, a location on my parents' map, a house assigned to me, an advisor who would be mine, places to eat, people to avoid. Within a few months, I was walking the streets confidently, learning short cuts that would get me to class on time, knowing what was "for here, or to go," developing an eye for furniture along the sidewalk, and picking up pronounced "r"s and hardened "d"s as I rushed by.

Studying abroad has a charm to it like no other. I wasn't there to visit, I was there to survive and be good at it. To get an 'A' in 'Stayed Sane in a Foreign Country' class, if you will.

Because everything was about to be different. No amount of "prepare yourself for a culture shock" could have prepared me for the shock that ensued. Shock, first from the simple realization that I was 10,000 miles away from home. Shock, next from knowing that I would never belong to either place again. Too much was about change for me to relate to most back home, too little had changed for me to fit right in to my host country.

What was your first day like?
I didn't sleep much my first night in Columbia. My dream had finally come to life and all I wanted to do was wake up and get going. My first day was drowned in silence and uncertainty, save for the occasional excited voice in my head pointing towards the tower clock, or a comforting muffle telling me everything was going to be ok.

It always is, isn't it?
It always is. Which is why everything seems a bit of a blur now. Key events stick; others merge into waves of day then night
then day
then
night now dusk
now dawn
then day and night.

Except the morning of the gas leak. And the evening I walked down University Avenue to write about twilight for my Advanced Writing class. The night I sat out on the terrace of Jesse Hall smoking cigars with my friends. The day I defended my thesis. The day I graduated. And then a new phase of my life began in Washington D.C.

****
(TO BE CONTINUED)

Other-worldly Things

2007-11-18T14:11:00.000-05:00

Here we are then. Back in good old London. We went to Nandos yesterday to chow down their infamous peri peri chicken. There, I discovered my niece's love for chips. Love, like no other. Well, except for mine. Soon she'll be learning all about kettle cooked chips, flavors to grab or avoid without a second thought and other life altering things. (She'll call them crisps but that will matter little.)

My flight was a bit uncomfortable. Delays, food that turned out to be a lot more impressive in words than in mouth, and leg room that was ... well, really it wasn't. By the seventh hour, I had mastered the art of sliding through a three inch gap between my seat and the seemingly comfortable person in the seat in front. I got to London in one (sore) piece though, and I suppose that's all that really matters.

In the last 24 hours, I haven't heard much of the English accent. That could be either because it all seems a lot more diverse to me, or that the city's peeps just aren't saying very much. After all, there's only so many times you can gnash your teeth and snarl about the "bloody English weather."

Despite the rather grey and washed out look of the place, I wandered down to Regents Park this afternoon, walked past magestic houses, took a stray photograph of the canal that whispered of a murder in its waters not long ago and dashed back to hot chocolate and a well-rested two-year old.

She's just ordered me to read her the "Boo Book" now so I must stop. Here's a sneak preview of what it's going to sound like:

Who said boo? Was it the ghost? No I'm making toast.
Who said boo? Was it the skeleton? No I'm making gelatin.
Was it the witches? No we're sewing stiches.

Literature at its finest!

2007-11-08T23:06:00.001-05:00

When it was over, the hall erupted. In Vienna, it was the custom that the royal family was applauded four times whenever they made a public appearance. To the consternation of officials and police, Beethoven was applauded five times. Among the many poignant anecdotes surrounding Beethoven, none can be sadder than the account of the end of this, his most triumpant concert. As the applause roared and swelled throughout the hall, singers and conductor took their bows. No one thought of Beethoven until the young contralto soloist Caroline Unger noticed him still standing with head bowed, his back to the audience whose cheers he could not hear. It was not until she turned him round that he realised what he had acheived.

The Men That Don't Fit In

2007-07-24T14:55:00.000-05:00

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

Robert W. Service

Mike Dunne

2007-07-18T08:51:00.000-05:00

Blog
1949-2007

The Royal Flush

2007-07-08T16:04:00.000-05:00

"I'm never serious when it's time to play."

I'm sitting with two people playing poker and having the time of their lives while at it. Granted they're playing with pennies, which significantly reduces the pressure to win, but their attitude is a lot more fun than the game itself.

Speaking of which, Nadal was great at the Wimbledon finals this morning. He put up a good fight and a great attitude about his defeat. I suppose you're taught to put on a brave face, smile at your opponent, and console yourself with images of your own, not-too-far-off victory.

It's always amazing to see passion in form regardless of whether the outcome is victory or defeat. It could be a good hand of poker or a tough game of tennis because nothing beats a good sport.

Unless, of course you're at the mercy of five of the highest cards of the same suit. Then it's pretty much time to lose your poker face and hand over your pennies.

Musical Collisions

2007-07-01T08:00:00.000-05:00

Every morning I wake up to music floating through my head. One song will play endlessly in a loop serving as a background score to my plans for the day that unfold slowly (and oftentimes incoherently).

Research shows that it's sort of like a cognitive itch. And to get rid of the itch, the brain rehearses the piece over and over again. The repetition aggravates the itch and the brain gets trapped in the loop.

And so this morning I woke up trapped in Ponchielli's Dance of the Hours. I suppose if one must be trapped, being caught between notes of a 19th century ballet favorite can't be all that bad. And although it's recommended to do everything to force your brain out of this repetitious tangle, I chose to succumb to it.

I headed to my CD player. Turned it on. Skipped through to Song # 9 of The Classic Experience, CD II. Hit the "repeat" option.

And put my mind at ease.

Stay

2007-06-29T09:45:00.000-05:00

In an instant it all makes sense. It's time to go home, you think, as the reasons to leave loom large and the excuses to stay slowly fade away.

Years ago I remember standing at the Bombay International Airport, waiting outside in the heat for my Indian American relatives to check in, get their boarding passes, and get through immigration lines. They were headed home. I longed to follow them, if only for a little while, see this world that they talked so highly of. I yearned to visit other countries, see other cultures, learn to say "hello" in seven different languages and "goodbye" in six.

And in that longing, I lost sight of my own country. For in the few brief moments that they would return to tell us they were checked in and hoped to see us in their homes soon, I clutched on tight to the sight of their spotless streets and organized chaos. And when they left, we left. And as the car bumped through potholes on the road that directed us home, I sat in the backseat of our car, closed my eyes and boarded the plane with them.

Years later I landed. "Welcome home," the customs officer said, as he checked my India to Zurich to Fort Worth labels. 10,000 miles away, I couldn't be further away from home if I tried.

But home has been anything I've wanted it to be. Home has been Missouri, home has been Memorial Union, home has been the Columbia clock tower, home has been Stephens Lake, home has been the beach in Norwalk, home has been holiday photographs, home has been a sunset on the Arabian Sea, home has been a sunrise at 40,000 feet, home has been the London tube, home has been the Paris metro, home has been missed deadlines and stomach cramps, home has been mama, home has been papa, home has been.

I suppose then that I never left home. Only built more rooms to an existing place in my life. And in that instant it all makes sense.

I'm here to stay.

Babbling Brooks and Scorching Summers

2007-06-22T21:14:00.001-05:00

Last Friday I was walking down old cobbled paths of the French countryside. The Friday before that I was dining with some of my favorite people in India's most populated city, Mumbai. Today, I've spent the evening at Dupont in Washington D.C. listening to street performers make music with large empty tins.

Thank god for Saturdays.

Grim Hairy Tales

2007-06-07T00:00:00.000-05:00

"What's going on?" he asked me in Hindi.

Here he was: the star hair stylist who, I was duly informed, has been cutting movie stars' hair his whole life (a huge deal in this city), has endless years of experience under his belt and is quite the charmer.

"Well not much really ... I'd like a quick trim ... some style perhaps, without cutting too much off," I responded.

"Hmm"

I could tell he wasn't listening. Regardless of songs of his praise, I should have been suspicious the minute I walked into this salon located in Basement 2, 27 feet below ground level desperately lacking oxygen and, as I was soon to find out, a hair stylist that listened.

I've been told never to tell a hair stylist (and few others for that matter) to "surprise me!" And so I didn't. I told him I didn't want my hair any shorter (Oh, but we'll have to cut something, he grumbled) and hated that it curled (Oh, but that's what God has given you, he snarled). I protested a little, he shot down all arguments and proceeded to hum a little tune as he began to snip-snip-snip-your hair looks good short-snip-it should always be short-snip-snip-remember to oil it-snip.

Fifteen minutes later the damage had been done. I stared in horror at the ground, then the mirror, then his face. It's short, it's awfully curly ..."It looks great, doesn't it?" He smiled broadly.

Too bad my country doesn't encourage me to sue. I would have made millions off of his smiling face. For now, millions are smiling (laughing really) at this wonderful haircut from the stylist who has cut hair for many a movie star who, it turns out, were all men.

Today's Forecast: Smoke

2007-05-29T02:16:00.000-05:00

I planned to spend a day at home, doing nothing significant really; step out later to pick up a few odd things perhaps, then meet a friend for coffee. Little did I know that this loony city doesn't permit quiet and solitude.

After attempting to laze around and failing miserably because of salespeople constantly ringing the doorbell, noisy construction workers drilling into the raw nerves in my head, muttering pigeons nesting on the air conditioner just outside my window, I decided to head out. I got into a tiny autorikshaw (the vehicle of almost-certain death) which flew down the narrow streets first barely missing the passing stray dog, next the clueless pedestrian, and finally not so lucky, scraping the side of a companion autorickshaw. The driver glared at the back of the other auto as it sped off oblivious of the cuts and bruises it had left behind on the man's machine.

All in a days work in Bombay city. I got my errands done and headed home to find a large police van, with barred windows and space in the back for at least four prisoners, parked outside my building. Several plain clothes cops stood around looking suspiciously at anyone who walked through this gate of hell. I looked them in the eye, and walked past with the knowledge that it wasn't me: I was busy plotting the death of the city's piegons. And if that doesn't work, hear this: I was dead at the time.
(I don't know why the cops were here, but like any good nosy Indian, I intend to find out.)

Despite all of this, or maybe even because of it, this place is more than just a sensory overload. There are times I feel like I never left India. It has me wondering if the last three years of my life were merely a dream. But of course they weren't; my landlady, back in the Washington DC, who's waiting for my rent check will vouch for that, I'm sure.

In Flight

2007-05-27T01:35:00.000-05:00

Sparkling orange in a twilight sky. One side of the world is winding down, another is getting ready to wake up, a third is in blissful slumber. I glide through worlds that change across imagined timezones and man made borders.

I came to stay. I'm about to leave. Goodnight, Washington D.C. Good morning, Paris. Namaste, India!

No Ordinary Summer

2007-05-21T23:01:00.000-05:00

Three days later, the gardener came to work. I stared at him from behind the thick blue velvet drapes in the living room. Every now and then, he would glance up toward the house and I would jump back in fear. I knew it was him I had seen that night.

***

We were on our traditional summer journey to my mother’s childhood home. As the train chugged lazily into the station, 12 hours behind schedule, I peered out through the scratched and dusty double paned glass. The soot from the town’s coalmines encircled the neon light of the train station. Out of the gray cloud, I spotted my uncle and waved.

Visiting this small forgotten town in East India had come to be a ritual. As soon as school closed for the three-month summer, my mother would pack my brother’s bags and mine and off we would go to Asansol. My father would join us later.

***

Asansol? Not for me, thanks. The town has too few people, and is far too polluted. I didn’t mind visiting it for the summer, mostly because I missed my grandfather, uncle and aunt who lived there. Given the choice, I’d rather they visited me. My mother’s seven-room house was like the others. Large and secluded. Every sunset I would be reminded of our isolation, and my heart would sink as the house inside got brighter, and the world outside got darker. “What would we do,” I thought, “if ever something were to happen to us.”

***

As he drove his silent guests home from the train station, my uncle’s voice interrupted my muffled thoughts. “Asansol’s changing.” A new head of police was in town and he had clamped down on coal theft that had been rampant for years. Several local gangs would steal the coal as it came into the town from the neighboring city late every night and sell it elsewhere. Now , coal thefts had stopped and house burglaries had started.

“It happens all the time,” he said. “What would we do,” I thought, “if something were to happen.”

***

It was wonderful to see my grandfather again. And my aunt, by far one of my favorites. She had a gentle air and had numerous stories to tell anyone she met. This was despite her rarely leaving the house, bound to a wheelchair by Multiple Sclerosis.

This family reunion was different from previous ones. Fatigue stopped by and commanded us to bed. The family filled one another in on uneventful incidents and called it a night.

***

At 1 a.m. there was a loud banging at the door. The walls of the house shook and the heavy metal chain used to lock the door rattled violently against the wooden entranceway. I searched for the sound in my sleep. Realm after realm had nothing. I was snapped awake. This was real.

The banging continued. And then several things happened. My uncle jumped out of bed and ran to the door, my mother flung the bedcover over my head to cover me, my aunt wheeled herself into the restroom and locked herself in. My grandfather lumbered over to my room. But most significant of all an intruder, already inside our house, opened the door to seven men armed with knives and country rifles.

Just then my uncle reached the door. Someone struck him on the forehead with a knife and he fell back holding his bleeding head. As one man stood guard over him, the others rushed inside. They were headed for my room.

***

By now I was semi conscious of what was happening. Still covered, I could hear loud heavy voices. I peeked through a slit in the bedcover to put words to the sounds. In the darkness I saw distinct shadows around me, some decipherable, others not. My brother on the bed next to me was sitting up alert and my mother on the bed with me seemed eerily calm. My grandfather had entered our room from the other door and was pushed to my brother’s bed.

The noise was deafening. Three men pounded the steel cupboard with a large rock they had brought in, while two others rummaged through our bags shouting at us to tell us where the money was.

I shook now and couldn’t breathe. My mother held me down the whole time, making sure I didn’t throw off the covers.

Just then a man rushed to her and yelled at her to take off her jewelry. As she tried to get her gold bangles off, he grabbed hold of her hand and yanked at them. She screamed and my brother shouted loudly in Hindi, “What the hell are you doing?” A thug standing behind him picked up a large wooden rod holding up our mosquito nets and struck him on the neck with it. It broke in half and my brother collapsed. The net fell lightly on him. I began to cry as I fumbled with the netting, trying frantically to rip it apart and clutch on to him. In turn, all he said to me was, “sshh sshh sshh” as he did everything to move my hands away.

My family was bleeding and there was nothing I could do but hide under the covers terrified. In all my 15 years, I had never felt so small and so weak. And then all of a sudden I had my question answered: If something were to happen to us, nobody would know. There wasn’t a soul for miles. It was just us, hurting and helpless.

***

The men were monstrous and drunk. They smelled of cheap tobacco and sweat. They continued their raid, and in the midst of it all, someone, to alarm the assailants, shouted, “Police!” With that, the robbers fled. My uncle rushed to call the police but the phone lines had been cut.

***

The next morning, I relived every moment. I tried to reconstruct the night differently. The men had not hit my brother. They had not cut my grandfather. My uncle did not have a wounded forehead. Yet, the blood splattered across the room, the dented steel cupboard and the disarray everywhere showed otherwise.

By mid afternoon, strangers filled the house once more. Police officers asked us about our housekeepers and, over endless cups of tea, talked casually about similar cases. This was common and also rarely solved, they said.

With the help of our housekeepers, we pulled the house together again. My uncle went back to work and my mother spent hours with my grandfather. Only one person hadn’t shown up for work. My uncle said he would turn up eventually.

***

The third morning as I sat in the living room reading, from the corner of my eye I saw a figure walk through the unlocked gates. I knew I had seen him somewhere. I watched him head for the hosepipe, distractedly attach it to the waterspout and begin watering the plants. From the window, I stared suspiciously at his bruised eye and wondered why he had been missing for three days. All of a sudden, I knew who he was and where I had seen him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fear. The feeling shot to the pit of my stomach. It was heavy, like a mass of rock, anchored to the bottom of the lake having crushed all life that once existed there. Every now and again, it jerked up to my throat, and I swallowed it down.

I wasn’t ever going to let it leave.

Permanence

2007-05-05T10:06:00.001-05:00

Bloggit!

2007-05-03T19:42:00.000-05:00

It seems that I'm incapable of writing these days. And so I'm posting writings from the summer before last, when I was a lot more dark, sullen and existentially anguished -- but nonetheless reasonably well-traveled!

(These days I'm just hungry)

(Summer 2005)
My city’s under water from the endless rain storms, and I’m sitting on dry land 6,000 miles away anxious and helpless. So what if her people are dying; people I’ve shared space with, people I’ve cursed under my breath, people I’ve turned to for direction. So what if the ground I walked on day after day for 23 years and more is melting under the pressure of human corpses and animal carcasses. I’m here and there’s nothing I can do but walk the streets of Bombay in my mind over and over again, not knowing how it’s all changed beyond recognition. Not wanting to know.

This is where my people and I part ways for I haven’t seen what they have. We’ll never have a common base to stand on again. Our land is breaking and as they struggle to swim to safety, I stand on high ground peering from behind shadows of security.

London, July, 2005
I’d like to say I’ve seen it all but that’s far from true. Today, two weeks after the bomb blasts, the city is on red alert again. Today, the world is an awful place to live in. I’m afraid of everyman as he is of me. I remind him of a concept he has grown to hate. The color of my skin represents threat and terror and he would rather not see me, rather not have me in his midst.

Connecticut, June 2005
As I tried to cross the street, an old Haitian man held me back. He said I was too young to be breaking streetlights, said I had a long way to go. He seemed to know what he was talking about, in his head, at least. “I’m not respected here,” he said. “Look at me.” And I did. He was a professor in that country and dressed like one in this. But he wasn’t getting the respect he had grown so accustomed to. So, why was he here?

New York City, July 2005
“I like money,” a Bangladeshi cab driver confided in me, trying his hardest to justify his presence in a place 10,000 miles away from his own. “Do you like it here?” I had asked him. You heard the man. I tipped him well for his honesty and walked unsteadily into China Town. I was on my way to Washington DC.

“Do I hear a 72nd Street?”
Bidding in a New York subway. I’d asked if the train was going to 66th Street. New Yorkers all joined in the bid. Somebody said it went to 48th, another said he was sure it went to 55th, a third said, “Oh yes, it goes to 66th”

Who said it’s an unfriendly city? For a while there, we were all New Yorkers, brown, black and white. We were all helping a young New Yorker who needed to make her way to Lincoln Center. We all spoke a common language. We all laughed when the bid touched 72nd Street. We were everyman. Only we hadn’t brought along our darling child. Hate was at school that day.

South Norwalk, Connecticut, June 2005
It’s how you present yourself. It’s what you make of yourself. That’s all it is. That’s a valuable lesson I learned this summer.

Oxford Street, London, August 2005
Europeans dress rather well. They must have learned my lesson several summers ago.

Baltimore, July 2005
I’m on my way to DC on an unreliable China Town bus that has just broken down. It’s been nine hours; I’ve slept, I’ve read and I’m far from near. I’ve had an interesting chat with a Yale student who’s traveled the world. His last trip was to Pakistan. He has a story to tell. I listen as I watch the driver stomp around the broken bus.

The Jubilee Line, London’s Tube, July 2005
She wasn’t trying to be friendly when she asked where they were from. She very well knew. She wasn’t curious when she asked why his wife’s face wasn’t hidden behind a black veil, why he didn’t have four wives. She couldn’t care less. She was the epitome of everyman. And she thrived on hate.

And yet, as us brown skinned cousins walked off the tube that day covered in indignation, we weren’t expecting to run into a friendly Londoner. He proved us wrong as life often does; went out of his way to help. Who was he, then?

A member of the minority, I thought as I tried to justify his act of kindness. He had opened the ticket machine to find our punched in ticket so we wouldn’t have to shell out more cash. What was it to him? It was a couple of quid at the end of the day. He helped anyway. And we were grateful for it.

At the foot of the Big Ben, July 26 (or thereabouts), 2005
I got to hear it chime today. It sounds like the Columbia Missouri clock tower; it looks like the Big Ben carved and gilded in gold.

Stomp, the last day of July 2005
They make music with non-musical things. And how.

Portobello Market, London, July 2005
I saw an ancient map today, dated 1826. It was a map of Hindoostan, and Pakistan wasn’t and Bombay was.

Today, on the first day of August 2005, Bombay almost isn’t.
What’s to become of my city?

Priori Road, London, August 3, 2005, 10 a.m.
Today’s Metro reads, “Faith hate crimes rise by 600%”
It was bound to happen.

Today…
On the eight day of the eighth month in the sixth year of the 21st century, I stood at longitude 0. The place where time begins for most of the world.

It felt much like any other longitude and I hurried home, knowing only too well that time waits for no man.

Columbia, Missouri, August 21, 2005
Tired and still on London time.

Don't Read This

2007-03-22T10:24:00.001-05:00

Two snippets of nothing... written a while ago. I'm starting to enjoy the power I hold as the author of this blog; this blog that promises direction in one instance and wanders off distracted in the next.

In a world where no words are welcome, no thoughts will form, no ink will flow; in a place of ever-transient emotions, perpetual echoes of silence and nothingness; in a secret dungeon locked away from the others who seek in order to be sought; in a cubby hole shying away from the luminous light, quiet it is, soulful it feels, directionless and empty.

For all the misery in the world; the death and destruction, I stand here in awe of the present moment. A quiet night waits patiently outside knowing I will live one day in the way I've forever dreamed. I no longer seek the meaning of life for I have learned that there is meaning in everything and nothing in every single instant. Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin and one will never be without the other. We are each the same in our struggle to survive and in our quest for survival seek greatness in varied forms. And in this quest we are mirror images of each other, not knowing, not celebrating; just barely surviving.

Zeus isn't happy!

2007-03-14T18:17:00.000-05:00

Is spring really here? Hell, of course not but the last three days have been absolutely brilliant here in Washington D.C. The cardinals and american robins can vouch for that, I'm sure. It's amazing to get out of a cold office fumbling frantically with your coat zipper expecting the cold to seep into your bones, only to be proven wrong.

And then just as you dig out your flip flops and a big sunny smile, you're proven wrong once more. Part 1 of my day yesterday involved open windows and doors, part 2 had dark clouds and icy rain.

Overall a worrying state of affairs.

State of the Media

2007-03-13T09:24:00.000-05:00

It's up! PEJ's State of the News Media 2007
(Click on the title of this post to get to the site)

Muddied

2007-03-09T23:56:00.000-05:00

I'm constantly complaining (to no one in particular) about the lack of coverage of environmental issues in the Indian media; about the long road we have to travel to "enlighten" people of the close link between their lives and their immediate surroundings. That the future isn't as far off as we'd hope or imagine.

But then I came away from an interview this afternoon having learned that it isn't much different here. And that it isn't all about the media's coverage either. More as an interest for the elite, environmental issues will always take a back seat to any other issue; and that the higher the economic impact of any issue, the further away we are from this "environment" thing. It's really just a bother and not much else.

We've come a long way though. From being unaware, to disinterested, to remotely informed, to possibly curious. And that seems positive enough; it's just that I can't see where we're heading.

Maybe tomorrow when it's light outside.

Words in Wax

2007-03-04T18:56:00.000-05:00

From talking to four and a half people (I'd imagine my alter ego has to count for half at least) about my blog title, it seems best to attempt to explain the sentiment of genius behind it.

The room and the weapon (in this case) is a take off my favorite board game, Clue. As a journalist I'm most interested in reporting the truth (have we ever failed you, oh trusting readers?) and "shed some light" using my weapon.

As my blog evolves, I'll reconsider the name and pick something less cryptic. Or not...

Another Miserable What?

2007-03-01T21:52:00.000-05:00

I'm finally here. I suppose it's about time I joined the bandwagon. By now, of course it's a little rickety and will soon be a snazzy automated wagon-x with hi-tech everything, and I'll be left behind once more.

Until that happens (or has it already?) I'm here to follow the elephant tracks to some of the best and most interesting pit stops online.