tattletale

"SISTERS"

2006-03-24T09:35:00.000-08:00

I did not have fun at “Sisters” though I grit my teeth and pretended to.
There were no guys around other than the DJ and his crew, who were pretty much hidden behind a thick glass wall. The music was great. The moment we entered the floor, my feet began to itch for some vigorous movement. But it was not even eleven, not even a decent hour to start, so we hovered against the walls, nursing drinks and small talks. There were several others, smoking urgently and talking in shrill voices to be heard above the music. There were enough of us to fill that floor, but it was not even eleven, not even the right time to start dancing. A group of four girls danced stubbornly under the crazy disco lights though and I watched them with part envy, part curiosity. I was curious because one of them was Indian and I kept wondering if she would suddenly do a bhangra step, or do boob thrusts madhuri style (which, vulgar as it is suppose to be, is the most fun thing to do…especially if there are no boys watching anyway!), but she and the other four did little more than sway seductively, grind against one another, sit on their hunches and come back up and repeated the “steps”. I watched, amused, thinking the sexualized dance was rather interesting actually.
I thought of the sessions I would have with friends when still in college. Dance hours were my favorite hours then. We would do it all, be sexual, be tapori, be graceful, try out Michael Jackson steps, try out oldie styles, invent outrageous steps which would pretty much be the victory of the evening, do the thumkas…
Most girls in “Sisters” were not lesbians. They were, like me, here simply to be in a girl environment. I hit a conversation here and there and realized I was talking to girls with “serious” boyfriends. There were others with their partners. I was pleased, almost intellectually. So, we are here to kickass! I thought.
I did not have fun at “Sisters”. When it was finally 11 and it was tacitly agreed that the floor could now be hit, the music changed to more vigor, more fun. The DJ was great, to say the least. Several other things happened by the time time hit 11. My friends were “drunk enough to dance now”. Most of the girls were drunk enough “to dance now”. Under drowning music and colored lights that illuminated bits and parts of the floor like so many search beams, the hall collapsed into swaying, grinding groups. How, I wondered, was this different from the unisex clubs I had visited before. My eyes looked around for some “dancer” and actually found a few guys planted here and there in the crowd. These guys stood out because of the ease with which they moved. Even when they made sexual moves they were not sexualizing themselves. They were clearly having fun. I ended up dancing several numbers with a small, asian guy, who was pretty much the only one who believed in jumping when the song said “jump”. But I grew uncomfortable. Around me all girls took small, graceful steps and swayed their hips like snakes. “Steps” were rather universal amongst the girls present. The boys, however, retained very distinct traits. One, a hip-hop-ster did the things only hip-hop-sters can do. I watched with burning envy.
Why could we, the girls, not let go? Is the concept that we are attractive only as long as we are sexy so ingrained in our minds that we cannot be a-sexy? And in the US! Hadn’t I come here for the equality I had always heard so much about? Over and over my eyes flit to the one Indian girl, but all her thumkas, all the mithun moves, all jhatkas had been smoothened away and she stood on her spot, lifting her arms above her head, curving first this way then that. And slowly I found myself imitating her and everyone else in the room.
So, I thought, it is not true that we act one way in front of guys and another way when by ourselves. All my life I had lived a dual personality. Before the other sex I had worn a certain smile, talked with certain vocabularies either added or reduced from my speech, been just wild enough but not beyond that, played the cute role…I had in short advertised myself as shamelessly as any other girl. However, once protected by my own sex, I became me – rash, irresponsible even, intelligent, fun, adventurous, everything else. On the dance floor in “Sisters” I felt my sex being stripped away from me. On it I was somehow condemned to live the staged and practiced life forever and at all moments, irrespective of who my audience was. Somehow the actress in all of us had won and we did not even know. It seemed there were cameras not only around me but within me and if I was to appease whoever it was that watches the films I had to give up being the freer, happier me. And for the first time I fucking wanted the fucking dance to end and I fucking wanted to go fucking home.

The funny cartoons!

2006-02-17T13:45:00.000-08:00

When I went to the office J was printing out multiple copies of the Danish cartoons. He said he was going to distribute it to his undergraduate composition class and have his students discuss “free speech”. It was a good idea, I thought, since “free speech”, “debate”, “composition”, “liberty” kind of all go together. Then A came in and J, A and I got into a sort of discussion over the picture. I say sort of because the discussion did not last more than a minute. It got over the moment I said the Danish newspaper was rather thick headed if it did not understand what sacred meant and if it did not understand the times we are living in. I think J mumbled something about “talks” and “peace” but I could be wrong. He only mumbled.

I watched Monty Python’s "Life of Brian" a few days back. For those who haven’t watched it, I recommend the movie. It is a HILARIOUS tale about Brian, Jesus’s contemporary. Brian was born the same day Jesus was under the same circumstances and lived and died a wonderfully similar life and death. Brian was a wise, kind, honest person who was crucified by Pilot. Brian pretty much died for the sins of his brethrens. Has beard, blah blah…pretty much looks like Jesus.
I read somewhere that Monty Python actually wanted to comment upon Christianity through the movie. He wanted to make a movie "Life of Jesus" but backed out because he thought Jesus was too religious and sacred a subject to be toyed with in such a manner. If Christianity had to be discussed it had to be discussed via a different medium.
Interesting. Wonder what happens to “free speech” here? Why not target Jesus? Why target a poor nobody Brian. How offensive! I mean, should Jesus be denied the privilege of ridicule?

There are lots of talks about how “fundamentalists” are using this situation for violence. Hmmm…well, that is true. Danish fundamentalists, Christian fundamentalists, Muslim fundamentalists…everybody just using the situation. Though of course, “fundamentalists” don’t really include Christians…wonder why.
I wonder if Bush, his army, his party, his views etc qualifies for fundamentalism. Maybe not. After all, using popular fear to bomb countries and keep alive a senseless war simply reinforces freedom of expression.
For those who are angry because America’s name has been dragged into this debate when it had nothing to do with the cartoons…well, America loves to do the “Right” thing. When countries like India and Pakistan did the “wrong” thing (testing nuclear bombs, for example) it promptly censored the nations and stopped providing them aids. Wonder how it will react towards the Danish. Another thing, J is an American.

Is making fun of religion funny? OF COURSE it is! Western movies are flooded with VERY funny allusions to the funnily sacred animal, the cow. Have you watched the innocuous, sweet, really talking about nothing movie, "The Bubble Boy"? It’s a so-so movie about nothing but it does a wonderful job of mocking Hinduism. Has a Shiva worshipping driver licking a phallus shaped ice-cream devastated by the death of a cow.
I am sure Bollywood is working to match the spoof. Half of Bollywood aspires to match Hollywood anyway. Bollywood can be brilliant at ripping off Hollywood tactics, Hollywood plots, Hollywood effects etc. Why not here?

Question: How would the Shiva worshipper translate on the Bollywood screen? Could it mull over the fact that it is IMPOSSIBLE for a virgin to have a son, for instance? Could it take a take on the Oedipus complex within the bible … after all no mention is EVER made in the bible about the love between Joseph and Jesus, in fact Joseph never speaks in the bible. He was not even present to witness his son’s death. Jesus finally puts Joseph in place by telling him Joseph was not really his father since his father was God. Well. However, his mother was Mary and he did love Mary.

The Point: The Quran, the Vedas…and I am sure many other religious texts and sentiments are offhandedly used by the Western media. The Danish cartoons rely on the about the Quran. They portend to have read and understood it when they make jokes about Muhammad and terrorism and oppression (and where the fuck is the joke in this anyway!). NO other media does this. Every other section of the world seems to understand the value of religion and knows how to respect it. There is much in the Bible that can be ridiculed and spoofed but that is not the point. The point is the Bible is a sacred text, one that is worshipped and held high by not only Christians but by everybody else too.
Maybe the Christians have to understand that just talking about ONE god does not win the battle, you have to believe in it too.

half stretched limbs

2006-02-13T13:53:00.000-08:00

There is endless space. Its stretches for miles, grass after grass, tree after tree. On television there is the space outlined by an endless strip of street where strange mishaps take place – a murder, a love story, a trip which will finally step upon a dream, a ghost that will suddenly kill the young and optimist. The space that swallows and keeps secret all the twists in its straight layout. Stone after stone.

The bus is crowded by blacks and latinoes. I am often the only Indian seated on the blue seat. I am often the only one trying to fight the space. There is space in eyes. There is space between words. Within the quarantine of the bus there is space between people. Every new passenger scans the seats. The new passengers want to sit by themself. They prefer window seats so they can stare out. Those of the happier world pull out their cell phones and talk into it till they reach their destination. Those too worried about phone bills (I cannot imagine anyone without a cell phone) gape through all objects into their own lives. Some sit with their mouths open. Some sit with their eyes glazed. The lucky ones rest on the wall of the bus and fall asleep.

The private sinks like lead before the public, the public floats like soft dust over the private. In the public the question “what do you feel?” is scandalous, in the private “what do you do?” can be thought incorrect.

Jayanti, a daughter of the staunch south Indian Brahmin married a muslim after she had known him only for three months. Her classmate thought it was too rash. Her classmate thought it was not right to marry the first person she had loved. How would she know if there was someone else more perfect for her? How would she know if she did not try out some more?

A fellow passenger said to me, “I wasted my life, now I wish I had done something. But you know what, I have loved life and life has loved me in return.” He was old. He asked, “Why are you not married?” and because I wanted to show off I said, “I am.” He said, “I wonder sometimes if I should try marriage again. Eh, what do you think?”
I smiled. “Maybe,” I said.
“But I hate the nagging! I hate the nagging! And there are opportunities. And there are whores available all the time.”
I was glad I had lied and called myself married. I said, “But marriage is not about having whores, you know.”
He laughed, amused by my earnestness. “Of course not, my dear,” and he patted my arms because he felt sorry for me.

In the endless space limbs are stretched tentatively. Words are spoken carefully. The vacuum between glazes the words with an attractive politeness that reveals nothing. People transform when they are drunk. Drunk people shatter the vacuum. One must drink to dance, drink to sing loudly, drink to unabashedly appreciate, drink to celebrate a weekend, drink to wind down after class, drink perhaps to remember oneself. There is endless space perhaps within bones and muscles and nerves. One must drink perhaps to bring them together.

cauldron

2006-02-07T09:09:00.000-08:00

Mormons are not Methodists.

Suburbians look down upon city dwellers. City dwellers are condescending.
City dwellers think suburbians are snobbish.
There is an attitude to community college students.
Private college students have an air.
There are neighborhoods one should not enter.
Different societies in colleges : * Indian Student Association, African Student Association, Jewish Forum, Hispanic…
Indians love fair skins. They dislike Africans.
A major part of the African population is uneducated. They cannot stand the snobbish air these ultra educated Indians wear.
WASP
Red Necks.

Liberals watch Fox News.
Republics watch…I don’t know what. Philadelphia is heavily Liberal.
Liberals and Republics never watch each other’s television networks or listen to one another’s radio.
It is impossible for the liberal and the republic to have a real conversation

One half of the population is pretty much a wall for the other half of the population.

A liberal and republic debate in an interesting talk show. They never answer each other’s questions. They only answer and counter answer themselves.

One half of the population has no idea what the other means.

My fiction teacher thinks the poetry department is stupid.
I don’t know what the poetry department thinks. I don’t hang out with the poetry department, not really.
Fiction and poetry do not really mix.

USA is a cauldron where nothing mixes.

Go to China Town. There are only Chinese there.

Catholic Church, the Mormon Church, the Jewish Christian Church, the Orthodox Church, Baptist Church, St John the Evangelist Church, African Methodist Church, Lutheran Church, Quaker Church – Churches, their names, their people. I have entered only two Churches, one the Lutheran Church to which my landlady belongs and which is plush with beauty. They sing choirs. They have an orchestra. They have an organ that blew my tiny mind. I feel rather tiny before its elegance. The other church, one to which my friend’s mother belongs (my friend does not belong to any church) is a simpler affair. It has no choir, no orchestra, no grand organs. It caters to poorer folks and comes forward in a poorer garb.
People, like liquids of different densities, do not mix. The poor do not enter the exemplified style of rich churches. The rich are not usually seen in poor people’s space of worship. The black stay confined to black churches. The Quakers don’t believe in the Catholics. The Lutherans will tell you what is wrong with the Quakers.
They are all Christians and united in Christianity.
The Athiests too.

You work. Work is worship.

If you like a girl, ask her out.
Rules of dating. # 1 – don’t call her for at least a week after you have told her you like her. If you can help it, don’t call her for two weeks. Don’t let her know you like her. Don’t let her suspect you want to share your precious space with her.

If you like a boy wait till he asks you out. It’s not cool to ask a guy out.

There is sexual equality in America. There are dating sites.

It sucks to be lonely so date. Date date date till you find your partner.
Don’t live with your parents. It’s not cool.

Be cultured. Like art, like poetry.
Be cool.

MAYA (short story---perhaps)

2006-02-06T10:38:00.000-08:00

Once off the curb the boy began to count the houses. “House house house house house.” He pointed at each house as he said “house”. Maya watched every house the boy pointed
at.
“House house house house house,” her mind echoed. Because they passed so slowly, it was like watching the houses through the windows of a centipede.
The boy had soft, butter textured hands, now slightly pink with cold. He kept one hand inside his bubble jacket pocket. Maya held the other in her own both to keep it warm and because he was a child. It would be ridiculous to let the boy walk on his own. Maya stopped before the traffic light because the boy was tugging at her. “You walk too fast,” he was complaining. “You cross roads when the light is red. You don’t pay attention”
How light headed the morning was. How drunk almost. It was making her forget people, first Sid, now the little boy. Even though she counted house house house house after him Maya had forgotten she held his hand. She had forgotten he sometimes skipped, sometimes walked by her side. She had forgotten him so much she had to stare a while at him to hear him. The boy had a small, pretty face, like most American children do. He had petal pink lips. He had large brown serious eyes that seemed to be solving complex mathematical equations. He was a little boy with a scientist’s eyes. What did the scientist think of her walking so fast? The scientist must be very judgmental. The scientist must be very logical.
“I have longer legs than you, you know,” she said and tried moving on but the child held her back.
“The light is red, don’t you see?” He asked, his brown eyes beginning to frown.
So she had to stop. She had to sit down on the side walk and pluck at the boy’s sleeves till he sat down too. She had to notice that his eyes seemed to do intense algebra when they looked at her. “How come you don’t die?” He asked. “The way you walk you should be dead. You never see anything.”
Maya laughed. Against the fresh, cold morning her voice was crystalline. “You are full of mad talk,” she said and ruffled his hair. Then because she felt she needed to add something more she asked, “Will you tell your mother I don’t know how to walk? She won’t let me baby sit you if you tell her.”
The boy picked up a dry leaf from the road and twirled it between his fingers. On the road the leaf had been dark and unattractive, but in his fingers, held against the light, the leaf glowed orange, like a soft fire. How fast it was already autumn, Maya thought. How fast it all changed. The trees had burnt flamingo just a week ago and now they were spiderly against the sky – like densely painted Japanese landscape. The boy pushed his feet against a non-existent rubble, but perhaps, Maya thought, he saw something she did not see. He had such large eyes. Her own eyes could definitely not see the things he did.
“Do you baby sit me because you have no money?” The boy asked.
Maya was surprised. Was that a question coming from a hurt child? He did not seem particularly attached to her. His parents were busy and every now and then he was baby sit by a couple other women.
“Partly,” Maya answered. The boy continued to play with the atoms only his eyes could see. “And partly because you are the best boy I have met.”
“If it is money you need, you should baby sit more often. I will tell as many parents I can you are a good baby sitter. They will send their children to you then.” Then he said, “The light is green. Let’s go.”
She stayed alert for red lights after that. She was afraid of disturbing the boys renewed count. House house house house house. She thought she was holding a little genius in her palms, a little mathematician. She was walking a prophet home. She was delivering a little angel to safety. Everything else could wait until then. She could grow careless once she had seen him into his house. Once his mother shut the door to her face, Maya could stand in the middle of the street and let blind vehicles brush the sides of her body. Once the boy left she could forget her name, her country, her home. Once he left she could discoordinate her mind and her feet. After the boy was gone she could live as she pleased, but till then she had to be careful.
“Should we have taken the bus?” She asked. “Are you cold?”
“No. I am all right. Are you too cold?”
Maya shook her head. How, she wondered, did a five year old boy know to ask her if she was too cold? Did he not know his privileges in the adult world? As a child Maya had done nothing but be a child. She had stood at the edge of muddy India rice fields and counted the boxes in trains as the trains chuck-chucked past her. One two three, she had said. Forty seven, forty eight, forty nine! Later she and her friends would pick smoothened pebbles from the railway tracks and played goti. It was only when she had grown up that she had started listening to stories about trains -- The number of people in India commuting via trains each day is equal to the population of Australia. India boasts the largest railway infrastructure in the world. A lose screw on the rail track kills -- blah blah -- the population of Philadelphia?
How did children in America not want to count train boxes?
The boy said, “Maybe we should not tell mother we walked right now. She might think it is too cold, even though it is not.”
“All right,” Maya answered and felt like a thief.
It was a brusque, off hand morning, very unlike the soggy and waterlogged mornings of the past week. There were a few errands Maya had to run after she dropped the boy home. She had to meet a friend for lunch in a nearby bar. She had to dust and clean her apartment. She had to decide if she wanted to go school or find a real job. She had to figure out how else to fill her days.
Without Sid her house was hollow, not that Sid had ever lived in her house with her, but still. Now she tried to occupy herself with baby-sitting. She was oddly good with children. She sang to children who liked being sung to and she played video games with the video gamers. She had no preferences. Sometimes if she had more than one child to baby sit she told them ghost stories so they would remain together and not try to run off alone.
When Sid and her were together, Maya had lived with Sid in his house. When still with Sid, Maya would say to him, “Sid, we will buy a single storied house with rock walls. It will have a garden. Cats because you love cats and a little dog because I love dogs.” She would talk about India and say to him, “Back home it is mandatory to leave three feet space around your house. So there is always a six feet space between two houses. Your window pane cannot touch your neighbor’s land. Your tree branches cannot loom over your neighbor’s flower bed. Privacy, you know. You need to know you own yourself. What? Isn’t America supposed to be the great land of individualism? This is twisted, I tell you.” Sid knew she was not living in indistinguishable row houses where your wall was also someone else’s wall, where if someone else’s house caught fire you would burn too, where your destiny became indelibly attached with someone else’s
India seemed like a piece of land floating away from her. She could swim behind it but never touch it again.
Now, with the morning crisp as lemonade, sweet and citrusy, clean clean morning, Maya thought of Sid again. His bulging eyes, his long lashes (camel lashes, she called them), his mouth with perfectly shaped teeth, his teasing voice.
Maya let her feet glide off the sidewalk onto the street. A car rattled past them as the boy hopped by her side, one clumsy thump and Maya held his hand tight. She did not want him slipping.
She wondered if the loose light-switch in her bedroom was dangerous. She had to keep the switch in mind. Dangling electricity could be dangerous. She wondered if her clothes would dissolve in the chill of the morning, if her skin would slip away, and finally become the morning itself. It wasn’t a Whitman-ian desire to be one with everything. It was simply the acceptance that now would be the perfect time to never be again.
“You know,” she said to the boy, “trains in India are the same color as row houses here. Rust red. Like these houses, trains in India are endless too. They stand like an endless wall before you. I don’t like row houses because I can never guess what the road behind them might look like.”
“But the roads look all the same.”
“No. You might be walking on the street after which the streets change but the row houses never let you see them.”
They were crossing the cobble street. It was an old street. Historical. When Maya and Sid were still together he would tell her little facts. These stones, he would say, looking at the dark, textured road, were freight stones. They were used to balance ships. When Maya and Sid were still together she would tell him she wanted to die like Rajiv Gandhi. One bomb and blown to inanimate splinters. When Maya and Sid were together Sid would take her in his large arms and kiss her lips like his heart was breaking.
“Hey!” the boy pulled her and another fuzzy car whizzed past her. “What is wrong with you?”
“I am sorry,” she smiled brightly. “Nothing is wrong with me. I am just thinking this and that.” She was guilty she had let the mathematician down. He was such colorful little thing in his blue pants and bright red jacket. American children were always so colorful. “I am sorry.” She said again.

in a mood

2006-02-01T12:16:00.000-08:00

First i thought it was something in me that made taxi drivers start and sustain long conversations. it was flattering. Then hair dressers always remembered to ask how school was going.
Now i know better. Waiters don't have that kind of time or else they would grow a friendship too and pet me into giving larger tips. Cunning creatures these...haha.
----
Ravi would have teased me no end if only i had gotten a hair cut. Gigi cut my hair too short. i suspect i look like a mouse. Thankfully, the handsome barber (he was handsome, i tell you. something of an arabic and an african with a jamaican hairdo!) cut his hair too short too.
Now we only giggle at each other but keep verbal mirth tightly controlled...
But there are other areas where i laugh liberally. He bites into the bread and says, i had heard of french toast but never eaten one.
i say, What!!! and cannot stop laughing.
that is why men should learn to cook.
----
There is always a crazy looking woman in the bus who will absently smile at you and say, 'how are you today, m'dear.' wonder why those kinds look crazy.
there are some sophisticated ones too who will nod that particular nod. i only nod back if i am in a bitchy mood and feel one with them.
----
the indians on the street never look at each other. it can be disturbing in the beginning. then later indian students aquire a vague, ghostlike quality. if you somehow manage to talk to them they will tell you they miss "home" but it is a difficult thing to say. after all, when they had left home they had not been ghosts.

random shoots

2006-01-30T21:54:00.000-08:00

There was a shooting in front of the apartment the other day. The bullet came in through his window and sat happily stayed on the floor. His father almost pee-ed in his pants but he told the father that it was no big deal. His father looked for the news everyday in newspapers but it never came. His father thought maybe it was not a bullet after all but there were still blood marks on the walk way.
He told his father that Philadelphia was only being Philadelphia. Here, if you watch out or listen to talks you will hear of bullets that shatter windows and leave blood marks.
If you read newspapers, like did his father, you will think Philadelphia is a peaceful city to live in.
It is just that Black blood is easily forgettable.

Eating Apples

2006-01-30T09:09:00.000-08:00

A group of people have decided not to be in support of vehicles. Vehicles, they argue provide too great a loophole for crimes. Even bicycles can be used by people with “bad” intentions for “accidents”.
“Why” they ask, “should there be vehicles in the world just because they make life easier? Is it not enough that God has given us life? Why must we try to rise above God’s gifts etc.”
The argument has caused serious turmoil not only among vehicle users but also among those who aspired to use vehicles. Funds have been radically cut from vehicle industries thus retarding the growth of wheels.
It has however been noted that the dependence on legs as opposed to wheels has actually brought humanity closer to God. There is now a distinct resemblance between people who are no longer seen on buses and God who was never seen in it anyway (Joan Osbourne’s pretty but useless song “what if god was one of us, just a stranger in a bus” can now be rendered an over the top science fiction).
The same group of people running the “Vehicles are Evil” campaign have also decided not to support Stem Cell research for the same reasons. Like vehicles, Stem Cell research provides mega loops for murder and life improvement and takes humanity away from godliness. A greedy doctor might kill embryos to extract stem cells from them, they argue. They are also worried that farmers who are now involved in injecting hormones into week old chicks so the chicks can lay eggs bigger than their heads before dying a very untimely death, might switch to farming embryos. Since hens are not made in God’s image and embryos are, the harvest of embryos, which will be through cloning, is obviously blasphemous and sacrilegious.
A pitifully small sector of Paralyzed, Cancer-ed, Hurt Heart-ed, and Eye-Blind-ed people are however trying to argue in favor of Stem Cell research. Their rather exasperating slogan is “We Want to be Healed!” However, their plea cannot be taken seriously since they are individually, physically and emotionally (IPE) invested in the research. It has been accepted that only those who are untouched by IPE can make statements about Stem Cells. Besides, it is Christ who heals, not Stem Cells. “Can we replace Christ with Stem Cells?” made the headline in the New York Times last Tuesday.

( When Mr. Blah Blah Waggily Wag Tongue complained by saying “America has a quarter of a million people who are paralyzed. One of these is my son, Roman Reed, paralyzed in a college football accident 11 years ago… let no man or political party think that they have the right to stop research that might heal my son” he was promptly taken to Church and made to swear he would reduce his love for his son. Wag Tongue’s love for his son was causing serious obstructions in his love for the Son of God.)

The campaigners of “Vehicles are Evil” have also sanctioned the “Guns’ Law”. Since Free Will was God’s first creation after Man fell(only Man, even though it was Woman who ate the apple), the campaigners are in full agreement that every citizen, whether he be with “bad” intention or not should be able to acquire arms without license or reason. Only with equipping humanity with AK 47s and whatever else can human Free Will be tested.

As a symbol of Free Will eating apples remains perfectly legal and is considered healthy by all.

at the gallery

2006-01-27T08:39:00.000-08:00

Sarojni gave me a name and a phone number. I could get a job there, she said, at that gallery, working eight dollars an hour in a kiosk selling cheap jewelry.
“Tell him,” she said, “that you are my friend. Tell him you are the Olney girl’s friend. He will give you the job. And explain your situation. Tell him you are a student and can’t accept checks. Tell him you need straight cash. No entry in the register.”

I waited for it to be nine before calling the gallery man. Phone conversations are free after nine. I said I was Sarojni’s friend and asked if he knew Sarojni.
“Yes yes,” he said.
I told him I needed a job. Told him I was illegal and could only work straight cash.
He sounded business like and terse. “Call me tomorrow at 11 and come see me at the gallery. We will talk then.”
“How much money? How many hours?” I asked.
Five dollars an hour working 6-7 hours a day.
“Call me tomorrow,” he said again, “and come.”

I did not go. Five dollars was too little. 6-7 hours was too much.

Later when I told Sarojni, she laughed that giddy, childlike laugh of hers. “My suspicions are confirmed now,” she said. “All this while that man wanted something else from me. No no. You did right. You cannot work for five dollars, but it is funny. He said eight dollars to me because he wants something else from me.” She stopped and I waited for her to go on. “You know,” she said, “Maybe if you go to him he will raise the pay. Maybe I can talk to him.”

I said it was all right. I did not really need a job anyway. I was only considering it to kill time. I could find other means of killing time.

walking in Philly

2006-01-18T08:47:00.000-08:00

We danced all night. We slept on each other’s butts and talked philosophy…well, Anna and I did while Preeti slept. Now, seven years after Preeti, Anna and I danced in Sophia, dancing has become a desperate attempt to maintain at least some semblance of those careless days. I took a few Salsa classes last year and was doing all right but I always knew I was dancing for more than just fun. I was dancing to get the exercise I need. How ridiculous is that! In Sophia no one danced to exercise.
I have perhaps exchanged walking for dancing. I walk aimlessly – part ashamed of myself for having the time to do this, part triumphant for having not given in to the dictates of daily life. After a few hours I can feel the familiar ache in my calves. In college I would feel the same pain after an hour of mindless dancing, but then the pain was delicious. Just when does pain transmute from trophies earned for carefreeness to shame one must not admit even to oneself?
My feet hurt for days, for days I cannot bear to touch my legs, to touch certain muscles on my back, to walk. I press my aching thighs to desk corners or door edges; the sharp push of inanimate objects helps assuage the living, throbbing bodily hurts. I sleep on the bones of my arms just so that…
Just when does the intoxicating absentmindedness of a dancer’s mind metamorphose to the blundering, nomadic feet of the aimlessly bored?
With Preeti first and then with AJ it was hard for me to lose my way. They had the sense of direction and I would always get back home. Somehow, with AJ being lost was not a crime. It was just silly. Now, when I am lost, a part of me gets frightened.
There is in me an absentmindedness that will not let me learn. Signs and posts are not for me. They don’t mark my path with white pebbles. I don’t know where that certain saloon is or where that bookstore is, though I have crossed them a million times, perhaps even brought a book at that bookstore. So many roads grid this city…that bookstore could be anywhere.
…a system gives vehicles signs to follow. Green, red, saffron. Stop signs. No U-Turn. Left Lane Must Turn Left. But again, America is a country of cars. Here there aren’t signs for pedestrians…
Philadelphia is a beautiful city. Few Philadelphians want to leave Philadelphia and live in a different city. Buildings are carved like jewelry. Trees line streets: trees that give flowers in spring, change colors in fall, catch snow in winters. People are accepting of race and class. There are universities. There is education. Till one goes to the ghettoes and sees endless rows of houses strung together like cheap, broken beads, there is ambiance in Philly. There are haphazardly patterned sidewalks to walk on (under trees, along with crawling cars)…There is a fantastically random jumble to the somber fineness of the city, till one learns how to decipher patterns and find the blueprints. If I squat on the side walk and stare at the seemingly accidental impressions sprawled over the tiles I can see the deliberately confused motif. There is no confusion here, only the attempt to confuse. It is the puzzle you have to solve once for it to stop remaining a puzzle, and then the puzzle will never return. I can trace the repetition, the single accident played over and over with calculated artistry.
I try not to stare. I try to keep alive the illusion of surprise.
This is arbitrary, I say to myself, this is new. This has never happened before…
I have not lived today yesterday. Today is not a calculated confusion imitating yesterday. There is no blueprint of my life…
Annie would say, but babe, you need to feel rotten in order to write. I would say to her, I would rather live than write.
AJ would say, but babe, Philly is still a beautiful city. I would say to him, it is not beautiful without you.

reality couch

2006-01-10T14:42:00.000-08:00

watched "as good as it gets" for third? fourth? fifth? time. It's a good movie. won some prestigious awards if i remember correctly. and then it has that commercial we are all greedy for. Love - it cures all. Love cures obesessive compulsive disorder, love cures blundering inarticulateness, love cures rude tongue, love cures loneliness (obviously! one can say), love cures the inability to love.
reality couch is a hard place to watch from. greedy as i was to suck the movie in and run it in my veins, i was always painfully aware that i watched a movie. credits are cruel...cast, in order of appearance...what the hell!
the most optimist, the lightest, the most cheerful of movies can leave me dry. i should add "sometime". It all depends on the mood, of course.
i said to ravi, secretly i hate movies.
why, he asked.
because i always know i am watching it.
i infused him with that nondescript sense of loss.
but then again, there are those frightening, five stars rated, sadistic tours for masochistic suckers hooked to tragedy...
from the reality couch they too get distanced.
movies...they are amazing, aren't they.
by the way, if you can, watch "breakfast on pluto". its a beautiful movie that insists if you are innocent, "really" innocent, there is no way you will be robbed of it. Its just a movie, of course, but there are people we all know whose heartwreching innocence is enviously alive. i wonder what movies mean to them.

dogs

2006-01-06T10:09:00.000-08:00

Couples break up over dogs. I have a friend…no, let me rephrase, there is this girl I know…who wants to break up with her boyfriend because she thinks he does not play enough with her dog… but she hasn’t broken up because she does not have any place else to go. It’s best to play it safe. It’s best to remain in love till you find someone else. HEr boyfriend tried to get me to “hang out” with him. I asked, what about Naadiya? He said, you know, we are fine and everything. We are good friends and all. But there is just nothing going on for us anymore.
I always see Naadiya and Mike together, they are the inseparable couple.
Dogs … there are dog saloons. There are pet care centers where your dog will be fed and played with while you are away at your work. You can have your dog’s hair colored and curled. You can have their nails painted delightfully. Dogs keep you sane. The doctors recommend dogs because they increase life, decrease stress and bring love into one’s life. You have to careful about how you train your dog though. Dogs here are NOT supposed to bite. My singing friend … name, Ravi…wishes a dog went berserk and bit his ass. Its one of his get rich quick plans…the only one I know so far. It’s a darn smart plan too. If a dog bit your ass you could sue the owner for like a million dollars. Dogs over here never bite. The only dogs that bite here are dogs that bite to kill.
I wonder what was up with that woman at the side walk. Ravi and I tried hard to pretend we did not notice. Other pedestrians tried to look oblivious too, though some gaped and giggled openly. The woman grabbed her dog by its head and screamed. “Sit!” she screamed. “Sit! Sit! Sit! Why won’t you SIT?” She hit the dog. She screamed, “you are a bad dog. Bad. Bad. You are a bad bad dog. Sit!” the dog, a beautiful, black animal, whined and tried to obey but it could not obey enough. The woman screamed and cried. Her voice was hoarse. She was squatting at the side walk in one of those prolifically available classic black overcoats which make American women look so chic. The sleek dog was a good match for her. I did not know who to feel sorry for. “you are a bad dog. You understand? You are a bad bad animal, a bad bad pet.” I wondered what the dog had done. How had it failed to bring love into her life? How had it not taken away the hysterical stress? How had it abandoned and let her down? How had it become more than just a pet? What was it that it could not replace? Why was it bad? So bad. So so so bad.
We could hear her scream at the next block. There were vehicles on the street but we could still hear her cry. Later, when the sound faded and the silence between Ravi and me became too uncomfortable I asked him to sing me another song but the mood had changed and Ravi shrugged and said, “some other time”.

2006-01-05T10:24:00.000-08:00

There is always a lot of concern about what the "international reaction" might be towards nepal's many misdemeanors. The maoists have ended the four month cease-fire in self defense...what will be the international reaction? the king is trying to play off china against india...what will be the international reaction? what is the international reaction to nepal's tea cultivation... which is better than darjeeling tea? what does london think about the nepali film festival being held there?
International reaction to nepal is...? when i introduced myself as being from nepal, the rather interesting, intelligent, even goodlooking boy (yes, it matters) in the flight "got me" right away. He shook his head. i (almost) fell in love. it is a dizzying effect when people "get me" about being from nepal. i fell out of love because he thought nepal was in Italy and everest in India (nepal might as well be the tip of everest. we use everest a hundred times to explain ourselves) . I used the maoist card. the boy was confused. he thought i did not look chinese at all.
King gyanendra, in his attempt to safeguard himself is bumming up with china. all the best to him. i suppose it helps to be a king. the last I talked to the chinese student who tried to teach me how to swim, she had NO IDEA what the FUCK i was talking about. Ne-what?! for one the chinese can neither hear nor repeat what you say. unless you say something as wonderfully nasal as neehoomaa (whatever that means) they have NO IDEA what the FUCK you are talking about anyway. She (her name? lin lin!) thinks i am from bangkok becauses i fleetingly happened to mention my stopover at the bangkok airport. god bless her, she is hellava good swimmer despite it all. She will keep king gyanendra afloat!
The only country who has heard anything at all about nepal is india...and the nepalese hate india...believe me. we hate the fuckall country with all teh fuckall garbage it sends to us -- salt, education, the only fuckall train running in the fuckall city of janakpur whose population has no idea about its nationality. heard a janakpuri speak nepali? its painful. you don't want to hear them call you daju, or whatever ancient vocabulary they address you by. they are better off chewing their pan and being utterly confused about why they are treated atrociously by their pahadi counterparts and why they wish they could start a rather bloody revolution just so they can know once and for all where they come from. we hate india so much we hate nepalese who happen to look like indians. we kill them.
king gyanendra is going to get away. he is just one individual. it will be easy for him to get away, unless we lynch him, which we won't. he will get away. China has no idea we are a country. india loves us (!!!!) with that amused grin on its face. india tolerates us, still with that amused grin on its face. It's an easy country to tick off though. for godssake, you just have to look at one indian to know the country is easy to tick off! its a crazy country. it would serve our purpose to stop pretending we hate india, or rather to keep repeating to ourselves that we hate India over and over again till we actually begin to hate it. there is no point. the chinese will lynch us...the chinese are lynching fucking america, believe me.
as for the rest of the world...well, i went to this shop in Manayunk (its a pretty pretty street in philly!) full of everything from Thamel, which is a crazyass kathmandu street. Man, was i excited! Some of my finest memories are wrapped up in the streets of Thamel. Only the shop in Manayaunk was called Vision of Tibet and every item...including the nepali calendar made of nepali paper... claimed either to be made in Tibet or in India. I asked the salesman, who turned out also to be the owner (just to confirm my suspicion) if he had been to nepal. "Oh yeah," he says, in a charming, broken nepali, "all the time. but who the hell will buy anything if i say made in nepal?"

... ah, i was running the spell check right now ( I SUCK at spelling) ... the program thinks i should replace "nepal's" with "nebulous", second choice, replace it with "Naples", choice number three, call it "nipples". The program also refuses to recognize "maoists"... it suggests i call them "maggots". Understandable. What beats me is why it thinks i should replace "janakpuri" with "snakebird"!