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The Bloghouse Continued... more Arbit Thoughts of an Arbit Fellow

Ok, this wasn't exactly back to back, and there are no zombies or slashers, but never mind.

Thought II: How in Control are We ?

It happened yesterday when I was returning from Taekwondo practice. A windy day with temperature close to zero. I was all wrapped up in a hooded sweatshirt, rain-jacket (there was possibility of rain), monkey cap and muffler. Add gloves and a pair of tkd pants and you have yourself quite an ensemble I suppose.

Anyway, I was at the main road, waiting for the light to change. And, as is my wont, I waited for it in a sort of eyes-open stupor, wonder whether Zahhak would be a good idea for a comic villain, or Macbeth would be good in the Hitchhiker's Guide, as a sort of ancillary character, when I made out "..eat this SHEEIT!!" with a secondary "Haha!!" and a couple of things whizzed past. One missed altogether, while the other brushed the jacket and dropped by my bike. I could barely make out a car with 4 people in it, as they turned around the corner and went out of sight. They threw chewed fruit rind or something.

I'm relieved. Whatever they threw, it missed. I wasn't hurt or humiliated in any way. But I'm also angry. I'm hurt and I'm outraged. And the target of a good deal of my anger is myself. I take jujitsu and taekwondo lessons for situations like this. You want to be prepared when a mugger comes at you, or a drunk leers at a girl you care about, or swastika-wearing white folk come screaming "Dotbusting time!!" or some such thing. But I wasn't. I could barely notice the car make or colour, let alone the number. And I knew even at that point, that there was no real point chasing a car on a bicycle, specially on an uphill road. But the inner me screams out. It's the voice of every critic who ever criticized me on strength or speed or stability or weight.It calls me a slow dimwitted fatass darpok. What the fuck is the point of your learning aikijujitsu, it asks. What could I have done? I reply, and it yells out "Something!!!" And I dunno what will silence it. The conscious me can only surmise that you anticipate situations like this only by going through them once, and figuring out what can happen, and more importantly, how to respond.

The second thing is the nature of the miscreants. We all know the type. They're the generic chutiyas - the ones who hit and run, the ones who take pleasure in the fact that they could annoy you, the ones you could chase forever, tire out and (If you've energy left) stamp out altogether (and face a subsequent manslaughter charge), or ignore. The least dangerous of potential attackers, in short, but also the ones who incite the most anger in you. They're to be found in bars and beach roads and maidans and any sort of broad public space from Rio to Reykjavik. But right now, the image of four white guys sticks in my head. I see four white bullies. And now, for I don't know how long, white folks are potential rind-throwers and spitters and callers of names and what not. White people are, in short the enemy now. Even my neighbour. Even the Spanish guy two rooms down. Even my major professor. Anyone and everyone who doesn't have skin colour medium brown or shades darker must now have an eye kept on.

Fuck. You spend a lot of effort keeping your life exactly in control. One fucking incident can toss your world about like this. It's scary

The Bloghouse.. or Arbit Thoughts of An Arbit Fellow

Taking a leaf out of Tarantino's and Rodriguez's book/books, I will be featuring a double feature this time. What are presented below are further arbit thoughts of, as you know, a very arbit fellow. So lets get to them without further delay.

Thought I:

Dollar Bill Marxism, or Looping Right Back Round

There was this "Will and Grace" episode I saw once, where Jack (look him here, if you don't know) is astonished and distressed upon being aroused by a woman. When he tells Will, the latter proposes he's turned so gay as to "loop right back to straight".

I was in Boston two weeks ago. I got the air ticket from Northwestern Airlines - found through CheapAir.com. It was among a handful of airlines with varying fares in the 250-400 dollar range, and happened to have convenient dates. Print a ticket, go to the check in counter, and punch in your codes. Show somebody an id to prove you're you, and the job's done. You're likely to meet an employee of Northwestern only if some thing's wrong with your number or reservation, and far from smiling with pleasure bordering on sycophancy, he/she's going to be bleary eyed and irritable. No cheery "How can I help you sir ?". This is like "Bhainchod it's not my fault your maader e-ticket number isn't right. Why the fuck are you eating my bheja, bhosadeekey?" [If you don't understand any of the Indian words, I am NOT going to translate for you] Oh and something else. You'd better have landed at least two hours in advance. If you don't, you'll probably set next to the single toilet on board. Chances are, even, you'll lose your seat.

Get in the plane and more surprises in stock. For starters, chances are your flight isn't really Northwestern or America West or whatever, but run by a smaller service leased/hired by Big Air. Little Air, in effect. 'Little' is the leitmotif of the corridor, the seats, the single toilet on board, and overhead bag storage space (Which is why you want to (I) beat the shit out of anyone who (a) is ahead of you in line (b) has anything that might be put in the overhead bin (c) both or (II) print out your boarding card 6 hours before you arrive, beating out all the others who had enough initiative to print it out 5 hours before) The silver lining is that your flight lasts only a couple of hours.

Ok, you're gonna tell me, so it isn't Jet Airways. You're in the US, and you have to take the equivalent of Air Deccan there. Here's the thing. Northwestern isn't the only one that trades flight comfort for economy. The truth is, there just isn't a Jet Airways equivalent here. There's no such airline service at all, not unless you have your own private jet or all willing to shell out like 1000+ dollars to go from Chicago to New York. The cozy system, that is so much the addictive staple in India, is all but non-existent here. Low cost airlines have dominated airlines so much, that they are now the norm rather than the exception. So, except for the really wealthy, everyone travels extreme economy-class. Sure, there's 15 different airlines to choose from, but they all offer essentially the same features, given the price range.

I started to find the same thing applies to food. Unlike India, where McD's and Pizza Huts are meant for pleasure, a burger or slice of pizza are the everyday man's lunch. Arby's tuna melt at 5$, with fries and a Coke. The all new Wendy's Hot Pepper burger at 4.50$, with chipotle sauce, jalapeno peppers and chili cheese. On average again, meals fall into the 5-20$ range. They're the type you order at a counter, and pick up in a tray or plastic box. Ok, Taste of China and Shanghai Surprise may have varying decor and sure, their meals aren't the cheap 4.99$ things at Arby's, but they both offer 10$ General Tsao's Chicken with rice and vegetables. And General Tsao's stays General Tsao's everywhere. If you really want high quality General Tsao's, meaning "Fried breast and sternum of chicken served in a delicately spiced bean, nutmeg and pepper sauce with dill, fresh aubergines and courgettes and Jinpo Southern China Rice" (Incidently, I've just made that up) you'll have to go to Han's, where there are waiters, and in white coats at that, a tuxedoed maitre'd who explains the recipes to you, asks you if you'd like Evian or Irish spring water, and finally charges you close to 100 dollars for two. And guess what, even special Frank (as opposed to average Joe) doesn't go there unless he's proposing to his girlfriend or wants to discuss a really special business proposal with his boss.

The same goes for just about anything under the sun. Clothing - Between TJ Maxx, Burlington Coat Factory, Target and Macy's, you can pick up anything you need. But again, there's no real difference between a Columbia Sportswear and an American Eagle one (beyond functionality of course, you don't want to wear a rain jacket on a frosty winter or vice versa). You can get any number of Televisions for 100 - 500$, but again, no real difference. High Definition ones are different, but THEY are inaccessible to most.

With the exception of books and broadband, all the things we look on as luxuries in India are to be taken for granted here. But they're all the same everywhere. The vast class of everymen live lives wherein their material possessions, from an external view, are homogeneous. Note that word. They're homogeneous. Like they all had the same food, clothing, shelter and travel means. Like they were living.... in a Marxist society.

Which brings me to the connection to the Will and Grace thing. The US has long been hailed as the Mecca of capitalism - the place where free enterprise rules supreme, and the market is ubiquitous, omnipresent and near omnipotent. It's my view now, that the USA, in its never ending quest for capital has looped back to Communism - perhaps not in line with Marxist theory, but surely as practiced by people in Communist states. With the exception of an elite - there it was a class of senior politicos, here it's one of uber-wealthy dudes - people's lives are uniform, on a material basis at least. [And I'm not exactly a Political Science/Economics PhD type, so absolute deference to anybody who has clearer knowledge of Marxism and Communist practice/leftist leanings/both]. Perhaps it's the nature of human economics. The ideals of left and right are yin and yang, and to be 100% of either, is to be a little of the other.

What do you think?

The Sum of All Irritation

While indulging in my favourite pastime - namely, arbit Net-surfing - I came across this blog. I've no idea who this dude is, but this particular post of his struck me as exactly what I find wrong with Virgin comics, or Spiderman:India or new media. It's not not Indian, but it's too worked up on being Indian.
"Why is "Indian fiction" a bookstore section, separate from fiction in general?"

Check this post out. Vulturo really got it right!!

OMG!!!!

This came in on IBNlive:
"

By IBNlive.com

Saturday March 3, 07:22 PM

New Delhi: Director Ram Gopal Varma’s controversy-ridden Nishabd has crash-landed into yet another row and this time it’s the Congress which is playing spoilt sport.

The Congress in Uttar Pradesh on Saturday demanded a ban on Varma’s latest release in which superstar Amitabh Bachchan romances Jiah Khan, who is more than 40 years younger to him.

Congress Spokesman Pervez Ahmed Khan told PTI that the film is against Indian culture and the screening should be banned immediately.

In a letter to Information and Broadcasting Minister Priyaranjan Dasmunsi, Khan said Bachchan is regarded as a role model in India and the film's screening will have an adverse impact on the people and the society.

“It would be in people's interest if the screening of the film is banned immediately," he said in the letter.
"
Gosh!! What a perverse idea!! Imagine all those poor impressionable 55-year olds who have a poor grip on reality and decide that since Amitabh can get turned on by the sight of a young girl, they can too!! I mean, they look up to him, right? And he's doing something horrible on screen, isn't he? I mean, remember the string of obsessive boyfriends that cropped up saying "Kkkkkirran" ? And that was just SRK. What could AB baby do? Dear Lord Almighty!!! Will someone please think of the 55 year olds? Or the 20 and 30 year olds who will become dirty old men of sorts in 30 years time, their even more impressionable minds scarred and perverted through this awful idea. Hai Ram, this is truly Kaliyug!!!

Of Taeguks and Taalams

Friend Pavan, who can be caught deconstructing zaniness every now and then, is famous for his comparison of cyclohexane and the blues, a comparison that calls for deep and out-of-the-box thinking and/or a chillum of really good Manipuri to make sense. Seeing as how my belt exam's just done (I passed!!! I am now a green belt with blue tip!! Only like 7 exams before I'm a black belt!!) it occurred to me to make such a comparison of music and martial arts (something you'd have figured by clicking the Wikipedia links in the heading)

To those who may not know, I took classical music for a good deal longer than I should have. I started to learn to play the mridangam, and continued to learn to play, till Amma and Appa figured out why all neighbours in a mile's radius took simultaneous strolls and drives precisely when my teacher arrived. Class X pretty much wound up everything, what with JEE and whatnot. It didn't help that my guru seemed to come one step closer to a stroke with each class.

Anyway, whatever I didn't learn, there was one thing that he drilled into me. Each taalam (and there were a lot of them) was made of a set of notes (again, a lot of them) Now, when playing, the idea was to have what you were playing as a set. But, he said, do not memorize them at once. Nor try to play them at high speed. To do so would simply mean to remember a single
compositional word. The important thing was to remember each note, so as to fluidly transition from one to the other. And that came from slow practice. If you didn't practice slowly, aiming for continuity, you wouldn't see the bigger picture, and be stuck. Practice the notes slowly. Slowly increase speed, and for God's sake Arun, practice harder.

All good. Fast forward a half dozen years. Exit mridangam, turn through IIT and finally enter Purdue. More importantly, Purdue Taekwondo and Purdue Aikijujitsu club. And keep on till you reach a few days ago. When I had my Taekwondo green-blue tip exam.

I'd been chafing in class for a while. Prep for the exam seemed to consist of doing Inner-Outer, Upper and Chop-hand blocks continuously. What a bore. And the stances. It lacked a point. So, when my exam came up, I was excited and more than a little dismissive. I was a bit nervous, but mostly confident of doing very well. Right up to the point when I noticed that there were three students with me taking the exam, and a gang of parents watching. Ok, squiggly-wiggly's in the belly, but still OK.

It was when the examining instructor called out the first form to be demonstrated that things started not to go as planned "Inner outer, Upper and Chop-hand blocks" she said. Whoa!! Three at once? Well that's OK, I figured. Right foot out first, Inner-outer, bring your other hand about and cross it and...."One" came the call. Hey, wait a minute, I wanted to say. I managed to do it though. "Two!!" Now with the left side, move and ... Oh shit the others have done it already. "Three!!" and "Four!!" and "Five!!" and so on. Three minutes and a cold sweat later, second form demonstration "Inner-Outer, and turning kick!!" Oh God, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

It was at this point that I realized the whole point of my teacher's instructions. The stance and the position may come naturally to you when doing a single one, but when in a situation where you have to use several, how do you switch between them? You don't want to be stuck between two stances, wondering about whether it's your left foot that goes forward or your right. Not only does that flunk you an exam, but it also keeps you stuck in any situation that requires MA application. Not desirable in a street corner when there's a punk with brass knuckles and/or a bicycle chain. That's why you practice several, so as to be able to switch between them with ease.

The experience also brought to mind something that my Aikijutsu teacher mentioned in class. A key difference between Aikijutsu and Taekwondo is the latter's emphasis on grips and takedowns, as opposed to Taekwondo's strikes alone. As our teacher explained, a lock technique may be broken down into a block, a stance and position shift, a counter-strike and finally the lock or takedown, but try doing each separately, and you'll end up with frustration (in the dojo) or a broken nose (in the street). A lock or takedown technique is more than the sum of it's parts, and so you have to remember its components, but not to the point of it's being just a sequence. It's something more in itself, and is but one component in the whole range of techniques that exist. So to master the art, again do your techniques slowly, but make sure you're fluid throughout (Here "fluid" has a definite meaning - keep moving!!!). Practice them slowly and with patience, till remembering technique X is remembering X, and not X = A + B + C + D.

To those who think I'm getting overly abstruse and/or pretentious, here's like a summary. What all this really showed me, and will show anyone who does both, is the importance of rhythm in martial arts as well as music. Rhythm and flow (the new Terrence Howard sequel) is vital to both, and comes from detailed practice. Practicing to the point where as above X = X and not X =ΣA, is how you don't see, but eventually feel, the bigger picture. Instinctively. The point where an Ikkiyo takedown or a back-piercing kick is second nature, and you're not aware you're doing it. Rhythm and flow are the same when practicing music, martial arts, pottery, swimming, hell even room sweeping if you see art in it. There's like one rhythm in all of 'em, the feel one.

Fucking disappointing, isn't it?

Shekhar Kapur's Devi:
Jackasses all the Way 2

Y'know, if I'd thought of doing this say 6 months earlier, I could have made a really neat pop culture reference, what with the Johnny Knoxville movie and all.... I suppose I'll have to be content with the humour of the dissection alone.Here’s to the Virgin Fuckers (neat phraseology there, don’t you think?) and issue 1 of Devi. Pardon the small size of the pics, you may have to open 'em in a parallel tab. But, those of you who appreciate this sort of thing won't mind. Do comment on this by the way, whether good, bad or ugly. Pictures courtesy of Newsarama.

Devi - Divine Virgin Protector or Whatever

“Devi” – Created by Shekhar Kapur and starring Rekha, if the red sketch is anything to go by.
Boy, I haven’t seen so many credits roll before a presentation begins, nor titles such as VP Operations, Studio Chief, Chief Creative Officer, CEO and Publisher…… for any comic book. It’s the content that people wanna read, fuckwads, not the illustrious names of those behind it!!! Even Stan Lee doesn’t stamp every Marvel product with his name and rank.

Chief, ahem Visionaries – a businessman with a flair for sexing up, the inventor, proprietor and propagator of “quantum healing”, and an almost Oscar-winning director who hasn’t come up with anything in a hell of a long time. I feel pity tingeing my disdain.

Ok, so this is the story so far, there's a divine woman formed somehow by the Gods, and you know she's divine from the fact she's "clothed in light" or something.

"Bring It Down" - Are there Oliphaunts around? Is this the battle of Pelennor Fields?

"The second century of mankind" - Evidently before they invented clothing for women, though after they invented blasters, gas-masks and giant castles with ramparts and bridges.

Something's not right, apart from the whole naked goddess thing. Why are people using arrows and crossbows when there're blasters to be had? Did they forget to invent gunpowder? And who are these purple dudes? Brahmins of the Shaolin-gotra?


Panel 1: Ah, so here we have the Dark Lord, who looks all saturnine and black-hearted and batty and even has his speech bubble as black with white lettering. How absolutely dark.

Panel 2: Re: "They call themselves the Durapasya - the Warriors of Light" I know what the fuck Durapasya's supposed to mean, idiot!!! I speak both English and Fake Sanskrit!!!

Panel 3: "The mongrels... take on the wolf" Hey, our Dark Lord's a racist too. Not to mention a Kennel Club enthusiast from the looks of it, if he knows of mongrels and what not. Seriously, Virgins, you ought to come up with a guy who uses cliches a bit less.

Panel 3: "The gods have a new champion. She's 36D size. They call her Jugs-A-Popping!! I mean, Devi"

Panel 4: "Haw Haw Haw!! No woman can take me down!! Don't you know that no man can kill me? So what could a woman do? Oh, and don't you think my shiny black skull and glowy red eye-sockets look awesome? I call it "the Terminator look" One of those sudden inspirations"

Panel 1&2: "Lord, I mean it. This one's like... Xena. Or Wonder Woman. Only more naked. She could kick butt"

Panel 3&4: "WTF!! Mader@#(*!! Dark Lords do not flee. Not until the stronghold's stormed and the enemy's right in and... Oh, there you go. Confrontation time!!"

Re: "You should have run..." "What, and miss this? You were right, General Sidekick, she's hot. Y'know sweetie I have a real thing for lightning brassiere. Let's chat"

Is she remotely Indian? Apart from brown skin and a common American Indian name, there's nothing to really make her one of us. Or a goddess for that matter.

And I'd like to know what these warrior dudes intend to pull off, kneeling behind her with swords. Perform "Crouching Tigers and their Suddenly Rising Dragons: The Musical"?


Panel 2:
Sidekick: "Charge!!!" Monks: "Countercharge!! Climb him and and we'll do to him what we've wanted to do with her!!"
Panel 3: Re:"Death's cold .....": When you have to shoot, shoot, don't talk!!

Panel 4: Re: (Dark Lord's RE:): You too!!

Panel 1: Re: "...slow and painful..": (Yawn) When you have to shoot.....

Panels 3and4: I wonder if he's really possessing them or they just became aware of their gonads. Either would produce the same effect

"Baalaaaa!! Y'know how hard it is to develop a booty like this? Even harder than shooting lightning from one's naked body!!"

Panel 1/2: "Coward!! Hide behind...Fight your own...!!" Well, duh!! D'yu expect the uber-evull dude to play fair? Follow Queensbury rules perhaps?

Panel 5:
"Your ego.." So Freudian psychology was invented in the second century as well.
"In about two minutes you'll kneel before me. Till then let's get some coffee and play chamma-chakka" Jeez, does it get any cheesier than this?

Panel 1: "Pathetic. Though not as pathetic as my yakking my bat ears off rather than finishing you once and for all when I have you groggy and knocked out. When will I learn "When you have to shoot...." ? And what do you think of my metallic black glove? I got it at an LOTR convention. The Witch King actually wore this, y'know!!"

Panel 3: "....only human" What is he, an Agent of the System now?

Following panels:
Suddenly... WHUMP!!! "OMG!! WTF!! HTF did you WHUMP me? And WyTF am I still doing nothing but staring at you while you go about WHUMPing??"

Panel 1/2: "Arrrrgh" Ok, power moment. Where's the temple bells? They ought to be ringing now, as "Jai Ma Devi" or something plays in the background.

So, this all-powerful Dark God can like possess people, fly a bit, make his eyes glow and throw a punch or two. That's it? Gods ain't what they used to be, huh?

Panel 2: I was wondering what the Martial-munis were doing with the flunky. Well, looks like they're back in.

Panel 3: So by re-invented, Virgin means they figured Devi would make a great Spiderwoman. Or Sheena. Or anyone who could swing.

Panel 1: "OMG!! She got him" - Martial munis.
"Know this... Not that it's going to make any difference at this point. I am the power of the pantheon. I am the force. I am the person who's knocked you down and is going to crow over you verbosely. I am the power of the cliche." Power of the pantheon. More re-invention I suppose.

Panel 2: "If it were upto me....Unfortunately it isn't, so all I can do is rant at this point and wait for your inevitable escape in subsequent issues"

Panel 3:
"How could you? You were the chosen one!! It was said you would bring balance to the Force, not turn to the Dark Side" And to top it off, Father Odin the Henko-White Fairy-Pope is also carrying a double bladed lightsaber.

The pantheon in the meantime, consists of a purple translucent dude with cancerous blue bubbles, grieving Daddy Whitebeard, Wonderbra-Woman, an Eagle, Ganesha's twin who went on Atkins and some guy with a Donkey's head. Inventive. More than anything so far.

Dying ninjas: "Dammit, I thought we were going to be in Kill Bill volume 3. WTF is this?"

Panel 1:
Ninjas: "We were sure this was Kill Bill. See, we even came to fight without any guns"
Phone: "Hello XYZ. What's your favourite scary movie?"
Re: "Who is this? I am busy killing professional bodyguards and can't spend too much time talking on the phone, let alone inquiring when absolute strangers call"

Panel 2: "Apsara: Heaven's assassin" Right. So naked lightning brunettes aren't enough to take out Heaven's targets. They also need leather clad red-heads.

Panel 3: She kills bodyguards to get to a target who happens to be a yakuza? Is this the House of Blue Leaves? Tarantino oughtta sue. Or send Jules and Vincent.

Panel 4: "...art form". Right. Can you like get more oily? Or cliched? Or hackneyed? Or ass-licky? [I'm asking the guy who wrote the dialogue]

Panel 1: "Hey Yoshi, guess what? Your wife hates you. Ever since you contracted gonorrhea and syphilis right in the face. How you got her sister is like a real mystery"

Panel 2/3: So our heavenly angel killer is like a feminist as well, huh? I can see her enacting the Vagina Monologues tomorrow.

"Call me Lord Baala. Or rather Lo-Baa-Diddy. Wanna get ya freak on my ride, Mama? Check the bling-bling out" Sitapur is in East LA, it seems. And for some reason, this dude attracts bats even when in his real estate office or wherever. Now that's an effective disguise. As effective as his changing his speech bubble so it's white inside now.

The fucknuttery continues.... what will happen next? Will Devi reborn beat this guy? Will the redhead take her out first? Will the hot chicks share sexually tense action sequences. Find out by putting cash in Virgin pockets. Or not.

From Sax Rohmer to the Virgin Chopras: Jackasses all the Way

"East is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet" said Kipling, and history seems to be proving him right again. Orientalism to use Edward Said's term, is on the rise, and just like Gotham (Americanized Gautam) Chopra's dark lord Bala, is stronger than ever before.

"Virgin Comics" is the name for this latest exhibition of it. The thing is a collaboration funded by Branson, and headed by Deepak Chopra, Gotham Chopra, Shekhar Kapur and Sharad Devarajan (Whose previous brilliant idea was Pavitr Prabhakar as an Indian Spiderman, with girlfriend Meera Jain and deceased Uncle Bhim in tow) The motley crew above aim to develop comics and graphic novels, based on Indian mythologies for an Indian and global audience. Their vision is, to wit (referring Wikipedia):

"A culture is sustained and nurtured by its myths. Mythical themes influence our behavior and even our habits of consumption. Myth encapsulates the collective imagination, the collective dream, the collective aspirations of society. We are in need of new myths as we move into a global culture. The super heroes of tomorrow will be cross-cultural and transcend nationalistic boundaries. They will provide the raw material for a new imagination that will take us across the seas of space, time and beyond. I am excited about participating in the creative aspects of the comic project because I see an opportunity to bring to our society a message that goes beyond the narrow boundaries of nationalism, and invites them to a domain of awareness where we experience our universality and hopefully, go beyond racism, ethnocentrism, bigotry, prejudice, and hatred. The new super heroes will be hybrids of all cultures helping us dream infinite possibilities and actualize our highest potential."

Unfortunately, they don't do any of that stuff.

What Virgin Comics does is repeat the actions of Sax Rohmer, Rider Haggard and the idiot who collaborated with George Lucas (maybe Lucas himself), in presenting the former colonized Third World as an easy source of uber-pulpy fiction. Exit, Fu Manchu with your seductive Karamaneh, Umslopogaas with Zinj and Zu Vendis in forgotten Africa and Amrish Puri (or whoever he played in "Temple of Doom"). Enter, Devi and Baala, James "the Sadhu" Jenson and Jessica "the Snakewoman". Yep, out with the old, Westerner-derived colourful Eastern exotica, and in with the equally misguided New Age-based, NRI-derived Eastern.... exotica.

The storylines seriously make you ill. For example, Devi, a "re-telling of the tales of the mother Shakti". Tara, is chosen as the one among her generation to take on the powers of Devi, the ancient warrior goddess who fought pitched battles at the dawn of the world wearing leather tights. She must do so to stop Baala, the evil dark God/dark Lord/dark Knight/dark Goth dude whatever who looks like the Man-Bat, was defeated and sealed away in ancient times (but not destroyed outright; guess what follows) and is now more (you guessed it!!) powerful than ever (Why don't they ever kill him back then?). Buffy... I'm sorry!! Luke..I'm sorry!! Devi must stop Darkseid..I'm sorry!! Glorificus the Beast...I'm sorry!! The Master Vampire..Sorry again!! Agent Smith..Not so sorry!! Mogambo.. Faintly repentant... I mean, Baala from getting the One Ring...I mean... Invisibility Faarmoola... No no, I mean Source, an ancient thingie containing.... I dunno what, but if it falls into his hand, destruction, Armageddon, havoc, pillage, evil and general Kablooie will ensue. So follows "Devi", an original saga of adventure, evil, courage, tragedy and romance too (Tara falls in love too in between. Gee whiz, who saw that coming?)

Other plotlines: Snakewoman, revolving around Jessica Peterson (As opposed to Jessica Drew - she's Spiderwoman. Get your genus and species right). A lonely Mid-western girl, Jessica is horrified to find herself aroused on killing an attacker - who wastes time babbling about ancient ritualistic orders while attacking (not original, nor very efficient when you're attacking a protagonist). She is told the truth by "Mysterious Stranger the Upteenabazabagillionth" - she's the reincarnation of an Indian serpent deity (Gee, this is original and a re-invention, isn't it? Especially the female protagonist/anti-hero? I wonder what Sridevi had to say) that's out for blood. Who's blood? That of the reincarnated enemies of the deity, who slaughtered its entire tribe of priests centuries ago (And presumably posted their snake charming tunes on Pandora). Precisely what are you re-inventing, Messrs. Chopras and Kapur? Indian mythology and culture, or hit movies from the 80's which unfortunately lacked the Shaw Brothers to bring them to America?

I remember friend lexicomaniac remarking on my statement "Globalization sucks the exotic out of everything". Here' s a follow-up - it re-injects the exotic, in the manner people seek it, into everything. And this exotic isn't appreciative exotic by a long shot. It's cheap and synthetic, and the injection process can be best compared to a collagen treatment. Deepak Chopra (or rather, Chodra) and Gotham Chodra seek to inject their New Age, Ron Howard-esque, Pulpy interpretation of Indian mythos into the sagging cheeks and breasts of their India-peddling careers. The result: Indian mythology, something that should analogize (I'm full of new words these days) Scarlet Johannson from "Match Point", ends up like Pamela Anderson in "Basic Instinct 3".

The Japanese have, in that sense, truly achieved a blend of modern medium with old culture. Check out anime/manga series like Naruto, Full Metal Alchemist, Bleach, Cowboy Bepop and Samurai Champloo. You see modern, futuristic, fantasy, neo-noir or a 100 different worlds. Yet, the aesthetics of Japanese culture remain in the thing, together with classic mythological elements re-invented in a proper setting. Space-Age bounty hunters in the mold of Old West gunmen and Edo ronin? Inventive. Mythological serpent demons in the mold of modern enemy ninjas? Ingenious. The Ramayana re-invented as a dude with a nuclear bow and arrow vs a Sauronesque nanomachine with Sanskrit names? Idiotic.

India is in need of re-inventing its culture. It just needs people other than the Chopras to do it. Where are you, Indian mangakas and comic artists sans the Snake-Oil?

Epiphany/Antiphany II. - What Started It All

NOTE: Read Epiphany/Antiphany I. Before Reading This

Saturday the 16th: The day the semester came to an end at Purdue. The day of Enduring Freedom, so to speak. Jasper and Bert, two exchange students who'd landed at Purdue for a semester long holiday, were leaving on Monday. So was Mario, headed to the tropics/semitropics of Sydney. I, in turn, missed celebrating my birthday the previous Sunday. And the exams got over. All a cause for a party Saturday night.

The thing began pretty low-key. There was the Chinese guy, Mario and Bert and Jas, and somebody else. We drank a bit, and wondered where S was. Jas mentioned S as having been with C for a while, since like Thanksgiving. Ears pricked up a bit. S was my neighbour and I'd met C at a common statistics class. I'd seen 'em dance at a party together, and they seemed to hit it off pretty well......

More rum. Jasper mentioned the Bloody Mary, and I explained the Patiala Peg, and how Punjabis and Haryanvis were the toughest drinkers in the country. Jasper mixed up one, using Tomato juice, vodka ad Tabasco sauce. Too much Tabasco. Way too much Tabasco.

Phone rings "Jasper's room, party in progress. If you're a really hot girl, come right along..." Jasper snatched the thing before I could really step on it. It's S. He's with a group of Germans... at C's place. They're coming over in a bit. The mention of C raises a couple of eyebrows. Jasper gives the knowing smile. At times like this, I often feel like a dick, sitting around with a set of guys winking and tapping the sides of their noses at each other, like the character roster of 'Desperate Housewives' in their 70s or 80s, in connection with some dude's dalliances. The right thing to do is to carry out dalliances of one's own (I'm not sure that's grammatically correct), or shut the fuck up.

But still, something niggles at me about this. I haven't put my finger on it. It could be I'd like a shot at C (if I knew how to take one) and resent S's aim, and probably is. But no, something else in addition......

Vodka. Somebody named Olivia (girl, but of no real or imagined consequence). Green Apple vodka and 7Up. Citrus Rum and Sprite. Bottles of wine poured out in small quantities. I hate wine. Belgian beer - truly the foulest tasting drink in the world, probably what the writers of the Koran drank when deciding whether or not to forbid alcohol. Basement Jaxx and Nirvana. Jasper's computer has Windows in Belgian.

Germans arrive. S and C take the lead. Arm in arm, smiling in that way that looks great in sitcoms and silly in movies. S is a somewhat short, muscular chap with frizzled spiky hair that stands up on a permanent basis. He's got a long rectangular face, and teeth that look like they should be sharp and pointy, but aren't. Sort of a snazzy soccer Brit meets R. L. Stevenson pirate. He talks English with this weird colonial accent, like Australian or South African commentators on ESPN/Star Sports and Tamil - believe it or not, he's a colony-bred TamBram - slowly and with great care.

C however, is who I really focus on, even through the slight glaze of ol' C2H5OH coursing through the system. She's the right height - can't call it anything else. Semi-silvery blonde hair. She's got a sharp nose and a set of sparkling teeth, the kind that you'd use a Colgate/Henko mixture on. Full lips that make a really wide and pretty smile. Most significantly, very impressive, very full and very German cleavage. Her sweater right now kind of emphasizes 'em. Wolfenstein ramparts with loaded artillery (As with my California posts, absolute deference to any girls who may read this). I wonder for a bit, what if she notices me letching?

The rest of the party is now kind of a drunken haze, the kind Hunter S. Thompson wrote about when discussing the Kentucky derby. I end up setting next to C (Woohoo!!) and S (D'oh!!). Small talk.

"Haven't seen you in a hell of a while" I say, smiling through the alcohol blear.

"Been at her place for like a month or so" S says

The rest of the conversation follows suit with the rest of the party. Haze all the way, or at least, I fail to remember it at this point.

I'm still observing the two though. The introductions are over, and everyone's talking his/her neighbour, so this is when the two can withdraw from the general conversation. They're making out, like the Foresters from the "B and the B". There's a bit of that squeaky-clicky noise from annoying won't-cut-to-the-chase-read-"do it"-romance scenes, drowned out greatly by Jasper's yell at seeing his goodbye card.

It's when I see C on S's lap, and his kissing his way up and down her neck (very "Sun TV"ish, yet the mouse is squiggling about the house, to paraphrase Gunther's season 2/3 quip), and further down, that I remember what's been niggling me. The conversation I interrupted in S's room. With another girl. By Videomail/Skype from London. Who, I remember his mentioning now, was his fiancee (sans the French caps, you can't put 'em in this word processor). Whom he was supposed to tie the knot with in May.

With many emotions and points of view in mind "Jumping Jesus on a Pogo Stick!!!"

I am being a grade A fuckwad, sitting around reporting this stuff to your burning ears, instead of sowing about my own wild oats. Yet I cannot avoid being fascinated by this situation. As I said, I do feel a certain pique in that it's S and not self that's leaving the party right now with C (keeping the party and this post PG-13 while the real A/R/X stuff continues elsewhere, no doubt). At the same time, the complications that must inevitably arise from this boggle me.

S is somebody I respect to a certain extent. A fiancee across the ocean and a hot German this side - kind of a very successful anti-Eurotrip or something. But what does the fiancee thing mean now? If it takes a semester to cheat on/break engagements, what the fuck do they mean anyway? And I despise the guy a bit - I mean, transgressing is a pig's job, however fun it sounds or feels like. Or should I follow Hunter S's maxim of non-judgement "Never fuck with a friend's head. Who are you to tell a friend he shouldn't change his name, desert his family and join a Satanist cult in New Orleans?" Or forget his engagement, developing tunnel vision for a set of well-formed bazoombas?

I wonder what C knows? What she's thinking? What will be conclusion of this - I can see people's fascination with reality TV in a new light now - entanglement. Are the two in one of those open-thingies which will end next sem? Are they permanent? If no, does C know what's gonna happen eventually? How's she going to take it? Will I get to assault the ramparts eventually?

I am in a world I see but don't touch. Damnation.............

Epiphany/Antiphany

There are many things I don't understand about life in general. The foremost of these things I don't understand is love - to be specific, the romantic stuff that one would associate with Tom Hanks, "boy meets girl", Bryan Adams music, chocolate in heart shaped boxes, proms and credit-roll music at the end of college movies.

What don' t I understand? What does the damn thing entail and what does it not? What elements constitute it, in what balance, and what would constitute an overdose? And the foremost of these 'tattva's that I find complicated is sexuality.

What precise role does sex play in the relationship that develops out of romantic love? Is it something you ought to permanently seek? The strongest glue between people, as Tarun Tejpal likes to put it? Or is it something that sets in after the touchy feely stuff has taken a good strong hold, the way people who never get any in the sitcoms religiously believe?

Concordantly, how strong is the emotion of love or whatever? Is it a superstructure built on a Hegelian base of transience and inconsistency? My next post is the basis for this - it is the source of my epiphany/antiphany (I know, there's no such word yet), but I use it with a semantic purpose) . But in the meantime, think about it and let me know.

My First Time

No, NO NO!! I am not putting up the details of my first sexual experience up here. For starters, it isn't something I'd put up on a blog, and for another......well let's leave the other alone for now, shall we ? Anyway, the above describes what means - or should mean if it doesn't - as much to a young man as his first amorous encounter. The latter involves soft classical/boy band music, a girl/s built on the lines of hopefully Scarlet Johannson and/or Rachel Bilson, some really awesome line to pull about one feels about her or what he/she did for her and a nice secluded spot to work off the mutual melding of emotional and physical highs. What I'm about to describe involves a complete stranger (and in my category, a male), music playing in one's head alone on the lines of "Blood in My Eyes" and/or "Eye of the Tiger", a good deal of locomotion from place to place, and a lot (I mean lot) of kicking. Yep, that's what I'm talking about. My first taekwondo sparring duel. In short, my first post adolescent fight.

When we're kids, fights are simple. I'm pissed - I fight. My brother is pissed - I fight with him. The guy who didn't get his turn to play Contra is pissed - we both fight him. I hit, I get hit, somebody cries and an adult comes around to chide us all for being 'childish' - sometimes that adjective can have violent connotations.

But when we're adolescents, fights can get serious. I mean, for starters people run around a good deal, and its harder to catch them - you look and feel stupid chasing some guy around the place. Secondly, this is the stage when you can seriously hurt others. And lastly, at this point the adults might turn out to be cops. So what with one thing and another, I hadn't been in a fight for a hell of a while. I'm referring to a fight in the strictest physical sense - I've had hundreds of spats and arguments.

Not that I'm Rambo or Rocky or one of those dudes from Highlander, but the absence of violence has somewhat taken a toll on me. All said and done, nothing really beats a fight, a physical opposition, when you're at loggerheads with someone. Nothing toughens you up more. Had I been more of a fighter, I might have taken a more proactive stance with my tennis game. Had I been more of a combative type I might have been more aggressive and effective as an enforcing prefect. And so on and so forth. All said and done, I've been a wooss for the past 5 years or so, and that's because of no fighting the previous decade.

So anyway, my woossiness manifested itself upon the announcement of the tournament. My initial thought was to flee the Club, the University and possibly the Country after that. It didn't help that the Club instructor told us all we had to participate, and that he started sparring practice in class with the black-belts for everyone (I am a humble green. Grasp the situation). Considering my performance at the no-contact practice, I could only shudder in horror at what the real thing would be like.

Fast forward a month. My better self, which manifests at possibly the stupidest times, caused me to pay the 15$ entry fee in advance, from which point I was forced forward by the reproachful glances my family would give me if they knew I spent 15$ on nothing. Better spend it on a beating.

And so came Saturday. I got up, dressed, and prayed to Ganesha with an intensity that had last come during the JEE. Proceeding to the Sports Hall at Purdue, I waited through the initial formalities and forms demonstration. When the time came to be counted among the Yellow/Green belt students, the queasiness that had been a sort of background sensation, now began to claim the limelight of perception. I was queasy and queasier, till I recognized the particular nature of this queasiness. It was something I'd experienced before my first elocution contest, and which I still feel before any presentation or debate. It was/is a kind of nervous energy. Nervousness. Not fear. Not fully. Half of it is, yes. But the other half is, well, excitement.

Whoa.

This is starting to sound like a standard Literotica S&M plot where a girl screams at being whipped, but then decides she likes it. But it's true. It has been a long time since I had a fight, and confrontation being so wholly new, I was scared. But it being new, I was also excited. I'm gonna kick somebody proper. And that was good.

I didn't win any medals. Two lousy rounds and I lost. But fuck I was in a fight. A FIGHT. I took on somebody and I came out. And more importantly, I wasn't scared of another round. Which revealed something to me - something about winning or losing. People, including myself, judge winning and losing by the prizes that are available for handout, and who finally gets them. This sort of thing extends to everything in life, and it's empty, it's false and it's the cause for so much internal conflict.

Winning is the warm sense of joy, that lifts you from the ground. It lifts you when you're on that podium with the prize, knowing you're numero uno. But winning is also the sense of insight that tells you why you're not on the podium; the knowledge together with a certain pique that kind of wash you over like an ice cold shower, with a warm determination to be there next time. Losing is simply not knowing what to feel, cuz it means you were never into the game to begin with.

AAAADDDRIAANNNNNN!!!!!!!

Strange Rumblings on Chauncey Hill

Having gotten up too late to make my own coffee, and run out of milk, I was forced this morning to bike along State St. to the fork opposite Chauncey Hill, to pick up some milk, and a morning mocha. As I emerged on Grant Street, near the University Bookstore crossing, I stumbled upon the first of several strange sights. A Saturday morning on October is when you’d expect to see, well, commuters who have to commute on Saturday, the dudes who run stores and stuff, ghissu-type students hurrying off to their respective labs, and those fitness freaks who jog about all over the place wearing spandex-like tight shorts, whatever the weather (this last group is one to watch out for if female). What you don’t expect to see is a set of guys dressed up as an umpire, a priest and an anthropomorphic cup. Make that a drunken anthropomorphic cup.

Wow.

I mean, it is Halloween, but that’s like a nighttime gig. The spirit of the festival or whatever would have to be one of those dark B-movie gods, planning to infect entire populations so as to gather its essence from the fevered worship of their tarnished souls and virgin sacrifices or something. Proceeding along State St. brought further such surprises. I encountered a Pope, a vampire, a ballot box of some sort, and a kissing both charging 50¢ per kiss (Given the guy who wore it, it was a very, very hard sell). Girls were a little better to look at – a bewitching witch, a nurse (whose ministrations looked eternally welcome), a clown of some sort, and a pirate captain in miniskirts. All of them, by the way, gathered around the bar areas. All of them squealing and shrieking and cheering. For a second, I let the sounds wash through my cranium and then understand the true meaning of “Wine, women and song” that the Prodigal Son had had such a predilection for. All this, while a must-see for us Indian engineering grad students whose formative years have been wasted in the madrassa of a tutoring class, was nevertheless quite mystifying.

I gathered the essence of what was happening at the coffee shop. Purdue was due to take on Penn State later in the day, and in honor/anticipation of the match, the tradition of the “Breakfast Club” had kicked in. The bars of State St would open as early as 7.00 am, and people would actually drag themselves out of bed – or I suppose proceed to the bar from wherever else they had been partying, and start a raucous booze party. In costume. In the morning. With girls. My children are NOT NOT NOT going to do their undergraduate degrees in India.

Returning, I see more people come out, now proceeding towards the stadium. Particularly amusing was a gang of four girls holding up a fifth, who had the expression one of those concussion victims have when you hold a finger in front of them and ask how many they see.

Also visible are a set of ladies and gents, of above 40, cheering for either University and also processing to the stadium, emerging from bars. Depending on your viewpoint, this is marvelous, marvelously pathetic, or both.

The morning was marked with joy and celebration – Purdue lost miserably though. The evening will be marked more so. There will be costume balls and Halloween parties. More slutty nurses, kinky pirates and catwomen and vampy vampires. More color, costumes, drinking and possibly birds-and-beesing.

I have homework. I have no costume. I am not an undergraduate, nor a member of a student frat. I am damned. Damned. Damned. Damned. Like those characters who wear thick glasses and shut themselves in rooms, and turn out to be axe-killers. And to make matters worse, my assignment sheet has typos in it, so I wont be able to do all of it now – just enough to keep me away from the fun. Play tragic organ music.

Close Encounters with "Original Sin"

Before I begin, this has nothing to do with the sexually charged Angelina Jolie movie (or, if you're a girl, sexually charged Antonio Banderas movie). My post this time is regarding the concept of Original Sin - the reason mankind must either roast in a lake of fire when the world Ends, or be subjected to badgering by Christian fundies, or in all probability, both.

I was walking to Math class in the afternoon about a week ago, when I came across the oddest gathering I could imagine. Seeing as Purdue clubs haven't finished their call-outs and such, my initial thought was that this was some call out - I mean there could be any number of clubs which involve red T-shirts and Banners reading "Christ says" vs. "Satan says". Returning after Math class, I percieved however, that the club also involved wearing shirts that said "Homos are Going to Hell" while yelling something from a bound book. Naturally piqued, I came within earshot (and within sight of the banners, which described numerous paths to hell that I haven't the space here for, and which Satan apparently freely professes and Christ denounced). The man in question was mentioning the pathway to heaven, with the alternate option of hell. The word of Christ apparently, was the only password through the firewall surrounding the former. "But you want to reject Christ" the firebrand exclaimed "You wish to exchange him for your homosexuality and your AIDS and your false religions (This caused my ears to prick up). Buddha and Islam? I tell you friend, (Which howla would be this kook's friend, I wonder) following Buddha will land you with him in the lake of fire. So will following Islam and all the other.......(This was where I decided to push off)"

A similar encounter occured this evening on my way back from dinner. The weekend being Homecoming weekend, there's a hell of a lot of celebration on campus, read getting drunk and insanely going "Eeeeee.....". Like any decent South Indian grad student, I chose to go for a quiet dinner at a complex some distance away from the maddening crowd. Returning however, while waiting for the light to change (Here you can't cross streets till the light is actually red) I bumped - quite literally - into a second gang of the "Salesmen of Salvation" or "Transmittors of the Truth" or "Promulgators of the holy Prose" or whatever it is they call themselves. Politely, one of the Knights of the New Testament asked me if I knew what Christ did for me. To my polite answer in the negative, together with a "No thanks" when he offered to tell me what he did do, he broke out into a long quotation from the Book of Revelations or something, one of those things that discuss the fate of infidels, and where they're going to roast for all eternity.

The whole thing leaves me irritated, though typical of an Indian, my response was to say "Yes No Sorry Thanks" and push off. To their credit, the majority of the people there (at both gatherings) laughed openly at the Gospel Ghissu Gang present. Who are these chaps to tell me where my soul is going to go? Apart from the word of a book, one of many dating to its time, what do they base their horrible prophecies on? What paticularly annoys me is the talk of "false religion" viz. [Christianity]', in the superset of all beliefs and ways of life. Sure, I'm a beef eater despite my thread, but I pray to Krishna, Vishnu and Shiva. I don't believe in castes and rituals, but I freely subscribe to the contemplations of Sankaracharya and the Dvaita/Advaita theories as to the soul. I have no idea as to where my soul goes after I die, and I don't take reincarnation as a fact, but I believe in my Paati, in her prayers and her love of Goluus and her steadfast belief in the Vishnu Sahasranama. How can I do all this? Because Hinduism, unlike any other faith in the world, has no set of centralized cardinal points that all must prescribe to. In essence, its a faith that mirrors the rest of your life and your actions. Who is a frustrated thumper of a book of a few thousand pages that is meant to carry the word of the Infinite Being to tell me its all false?

Fundie Christianity is like the faith of the Sith "If you're not with me, you're my enemy" is the mantra of the God fundies pray to. Curse them all. May the fleas of a thousand camels feast on the parting between their legs!!!!

The Classic Issue

Having just completed a month or so at Purdue, I'd started to slide into the usual rut. There's homework to be done before such and such a date, lab work on such and such days and papers to be read for such and such a purpose. All said and done, nice comfy routine. I was quite rudely shaken when I saw Arjun's pics.

For those who don't know, Arjun "Lopa" Nagarajan is a civil eng. student from the class of 2006. His significance is far greater to the batch (Remember Varad's statement - "Yeh to apna 'Almost G-sec' hain") Having managed to somehow complete 4 years in IIT G with his wits about him, Arjun joined Schlumberger, the exploration giant on the look out for engineers, and he technically possessing a B.Tech degree. He's currently based in Alexandria, monitoring oil drilling in the desert before moving on to other things. If things go well, it'll be Sudan in a while, and who knows, Congo,South Africa, Brazil, Indonesia, East Pacific, hell, the Moon if they find petrol there.

Precisely what niggles me is the thought of what he's doing. Sure, like I said, things are cool, but there's no real red-hot feeling in it. Not like what's aroused when you think of pottering about the desert in Giza - that would be red-hot, one way or another. The thought of Lopa out there makes me not a little green.

Which brings me to the classic issue that all youth like me face viz. what precisely is it that we lie doing? What is the calling? What is that mystical thing that is our gift, our art, the thing with which we can really make a mark in our lifetime?

More importantly, how precisely do you find it? There are some of chaps (like Pesh) who know exactly what htye're gonna do from Class X. But for those who don't - what is the way? I mean, unless you follow a floating star to a bow and arrow or a music sheet and a guitar or a laboratory with chemicals in it, how do you know what is your thing? The only solution that really occured to me was to sample stuff, and then figure out what appeals to me the most - which is essentially what I am doing now. But then can you really sample EVERYTHING? I mean scuba diving and professional tennis and piloting an aircraft and conserving tigers and making ice cream and herding cattle and acting in porn films and so on and so forth. You'd have to be an Orochimaru of sorts [Refer to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orochimaru_%28Naruto%29#Background to understand what I'm saying] to do that, which can't be very good for your psyche or physically possible.

Fear lurks at me

The Greatest Discovery Possible

Being in the same batch as Ranga who's a genius (period) and VP who can drive himself suddenly to immense activity, I must confess to a certain sense of inadequacy in my 4th year as far as the BTP was concerned. I mean, these guys did stuff. I tried hard, but no rolled-up Havana tobacco, if you know what I mean. My sense of inadequacy was driven out today by my discovery. To all those of the class of 2006, especially biotech guys, I have discovered at Purdue something impossible to replicate with a lifetime of research at MIT. What, you ask? A new protein? A system processor? A Philosopher's Stone? A Chillum that never empties? A way to whack it 30 successful times an hour? I met, on my very first day, a Jhaavar!! Not just somebody with the teeth and crooked smile. I met someone with the same teeth, the same scoffing laugh, the same shifty glance like a rat's and a pig's simultaneously, the same tendency to butt in on other's conversation to dispense unwanted advice, the same depth of delusion as to one's infinite "cool"ness and the same voice. I have yet to carry out the ultimate experiment - I have not asked this Jhavar to explain something to me, stating in between that I did not "get the point", but all other tests show conclusively, that yes, there are two Jhaavars in this world. Or rather, seeing as this one's a girl, a Jhaavar and a Jhaavarin. Not Nobel prize-winning stuff, but a sure statement as to the wonders that this world can hold. A scary thought - Jhaavar is a mere three hours away at UIUC. What if he meets Jhaavarin, and they produce a new race - Homo Jhaavariens, super-Jhaavars, pureblood Jhaavars or something?

Grad School Gazetteering: Pottering about Purdue (My first day)

For those of you who missed the racy tone and salacious narration of the California diaries, I'm back!! Pardon my absence, it took a while to get hold of the adequate resources - the combination of network access and a computer of your own at precisely the time when you're both jobless enough and in the mood for writing. Presented hereforth are some odd vignettes about Purdue and Indiana:

15th of August: Was quite suprised, (and not very pleasantly) to find that the Indian student's association had organized a celebration function for Independence day. There was a flag hosting, anthem singing, some community song-and-dance (both literally and figuratively), and most importantly, free Indian food. Found out all this after the whole thing was over (having just moved in all my stuff, free pseudo-Indian food wasnt quite a priority). The whole thing got me pondering - loving one's home (as in where you live, your village and town and state, hell if you've lived all over the place, your entire country) is one thing, but it doesn't quite equate to flag hosting and anthem-singing en-masse in a foreign university. Kind of jingoistic, and more than slightly saccharine. I mean, we all know we're Indians, we all know our country threw off the shackles of the evil Britishers this day 55 years ago, but is this something to celebrate seven seas away? Call me oddly conservative, but flags and anthems are standards to be borne on their own soil, not elsewhere. If you want to emphasize your Indianness to such an extent, why'd you leave home to begin with? The whole thing reminded me of that Karan Johar movie - K3G, where Ridiculous Roshan teaches his nephew the Jana Gana Mana and makes him sing it in front of the whole school, moving his parents to tears and so on?

Endnote: 98% of those who attended would have done so for the free food and 1.99 of the rest for the additional community get together thing, so I guess the virus of jingoism would not be all that prevalent. I just hope to find the main K3G-esque initiator - the main host to the disease - so I can stay as far away from the hypocrite as possible.

The California Diaries: A Well Stacked Breakfast

Ok, so the walk was really great. Seeing as it's Sunday morning, and Mami's out of town, it's time to get breakfast the man's way - go to a restaurant.

We drive out of Saratoga, and make our way through Cupertino. There's a whole slew of little towns around here - Cupertino, Palo Alto, Saratoga, Mountain View, Campbell, Los Gatos and so on. They house the people who rake in the moolah at San Jose (guess what? they pronounce it "Hoseiy") and San Fransisco. People here are tech-oriented, highly educated, very smart and snazzily rich - you can see Silicon Valley written all over them.

Crossing into the town of Campbell, we make for its Downtown. Mama explains that each of these towns have a Downtown section, a place where all the commercial activity takes place viz. where all the malls and restaurants are. We're headed for Stack's, a very popular All-American breakfast and lunch joint. We park at a turning ahead of the place. The sight of at least 8 people standing before us at the entrance marks out both Stacks' popularity and the wait we're likely to have, having come past 10 am on a Sunday morning. The guy at the entrance tells us we're gonna have to wait around an hour at the outset. As we walk around outside to kill time we're pleasantly surprised at the sight before us.

It's Sunday, and the Downtown Road end has been let for a farmer's fair. The street is filled with stalls of people selling fruits and vegetables (processed and raw), meat, fish and food products like jam, pickles etc. The first stall is a hot dog stand, selling 4 different old favourites. Going down we see a bagel joint, a fishmonger of sorts, and a fruit-seller. The man sells plums of a variety that look and taste like apples. I forget what he called them.

We come across this almond vendor. 50 types of roasted and treated almonds - honey roasted, stir fried, plain roasted and so on. He's got a set of 7-8 jars that have these almonds in 'em, and you can try a sample. Mama ppoints out one, and we all take a couple from it. Hey, the flavouring is some sort of exotic Mexican thing, but it' s exactly like masala. And the almonds add a richness you don't find in peanuts. I happily tilt the jar again and take around 8, before Mama reminds me that these are free "samples", and in the US, there is an unspoken definition of a "sample" as being way less than that!!

Further down, more stuff and more people. There's this old African guy with a space to himself. He's got a mike and a banjo, and is making the most of both. A couple of mid-40's ladies are helping him out with the vocals. I suddenly notice, the guy's also got percussion plates attached to his legs or knees. For a second he reminds me of Dick Van Dyke from Mary Poppins.

We're at this preserves shop. The sign says "Preserved Apricots and Honeyed Products" or something. Mama doesn't notice and moves on. I take notice, not of the maal being sold but of this semi-Mexican girl with brownish hair there. Smooth skin, round face and incredible suntan. Very curvaceous figure. Thick black hair that goes around the face like Eve Mendes'. My cousin stops at the stand next to it and picks up a packet of fresh strawberries. He points them out. My mind however isn't on strawberries or apricots. With all deference to any girls or ladies who might read this, it's on another fruit altogether!!

Anyway, about half an hour has passed. We make our way back to the restaurant, deciding to take pot luck. Another 40 minutes, but it's possible somebody with a reservation (made half an hour ago) might not show up. So we wait. Conversation revolves around California as a State. I am freaked at leavingthis place. I'm heading off shortly to a place with 6 months of -20 degrees winter. What in God's name am I doing, leaving this land of milk and honey behind (pun intended, btw) ?

While waiting inside, I see more clearly, and comfortably, the female forms amidst those waiting and those helping out at the restaurant. It's summer, so places like these would be hiring a lot of students to do stuff. And unlike India, cafe waiters do not belong to the bottom social rung occupied by domestic help (Hell, in US domestic help occupy a very high social rung).
There's a lot of young girls around. I see this white girl with her family ( Should I have said family with this daughter? ). She has brown hair, greyish blue eyes and a rare smoothness of skin colour (Oh yeah, a hell of a lot of Americans tend to turn spotted and pinkish in the sun. Being from the tropics definitely helps the complexion). First thing noticeable are her shorts - they're called Daisy Dukes - cutoffs that end, quite beautifully, way above her knee. Way way above. And to make life better, she has slim muscular legs, worth an occasional letch. Again, all deference to those girls and ladies who might read this. Anyway, my eyes work their way up, and when her top is reached, "Stack" is less of a cafe name and more of an aesthetic theme for the surrounding environment, like a Firefox skin.

I sit and ogle comfortably, turning back to join in the conversation in between. I ask my cousin out of faint curiosity "Do people always dress like that without the least self-consciousness ?" He looks at the subject in question, grins and replies in the affirmative. Apparently, they have to impose dress codes at school to prevent this there. God's Own Country.

The waiter takes our orders. My cousin's going for a burrito with eggs, and my uncle for pancakes. I decide to try something unique. "Belgian waffles" I say "Banana and Pecan nuts" I say Pecan like Bacon. Mama tells me its pronounced "payk-aun". More work due on pronounciation. Here, 'how' isn't pronounced "How", but "Haaouw", so it rhymes with "Hu Jintao"!!!

While we're waiting, my roving eye now falls upon the girl at the cash register. This one's slim too, with Emma Watson-esque hair, and very cute spectacles (wtf am I saying?). She's very animated, moving about telling other waiters and waitresses what to do, taking bills, punching cards and stuff. My cousin tells me she's probably a college student. Interesting, not just her figure and looks, but also the idea of summer jobs there vs. here.

Belgian waffles are incredible. They're covered with whipped cream and fruit. Terrific eating. One word of advice, however. Don't eat the fruit first, and then the waffles and cream. The mixture is terrifically rich. So rich, it starts to make you green around the gills a bit.

Mocha coffee follows to wash down the meal. I sigh in satisfaction. Cool weather, brilliant sunshine, hot girls and great food. What more can life really offer?