why oh why is the world so wrong, politically, socially, everything is messed up. how can a donald trump even be real in this world? and a ted cruz and a jeb bush and a ...

why does the rustle of drying leaves in wintry wind give a sense of the opposite
why does it calm the uproar in my head
why does it console me
why does it want to make me forget
that nothing is right

when even the cycle of such rustle and decay and renewal is affected
when the whole world has been wrecked
by us, people

what I'm hooked onto these days.. the best political and social satirist of 'em all

melodies and memories

I do not credit myself with a musical ear. of course I have my days and my moods. and on a cold windy evening like today after teaching a vaguely interested mba class some Economics for 4 hours and earning a headache in return, and after that taking a walk in the sun and chilly wind near the river to soak in all that beauty and the yellowing leaves and adding cold achy ears to that headache, I prefer curling up in my warm apartment to a short nap and to wake up to something like this.



this btw is my new favorite band.

every time I visit a new country, I come away with some music. this above was the result of a visit to Lisbon, Portugal. although to be fair, the music that comes out of a visit isn't really something I heard there. when I went to Jerusalem two years ago (or was it three years ago), one evening loitering around the lanes of the old city with some other summer school students, we got lucky and came upon a concert inside a church. it was a local band, and I stood mesmerized. because there is something about an old church courtyard and the sound of the guitar and the humming and singing of lilting middle eastern melodies. to be precise it was a rock concert but being Israel, the singing was soft such that one closed one's eyes and swayed to it only to open it and feel like one had crashed into a secret gathering in that enchanted old courtyard. there was a small group of people other than us, who seemed to be friends and family of the band - a mix of young and old.

I spent days after coming back trying to find the band on youtube or elsewhere, but failed. I did however receive a hazy phone video from a friend who had recorded it and felt about it in the same way as I did. and then my failed searches led me to some other artists from Israel, two of whom became my new favorites then and stay(ed) with me for a long time after, even now.

some days before my trip to Lisbon I was leafing through my pocket lonely planet guide for the city and familiarizing myself with the names and locations of places I wanted to see so as to optimize my very short stay there. and I then happened to also watch Bourdain's Lisbon episode, in which he meets up with the above band and realized they would be playing in Lisbon one of the nights I'd be there. alas, we wouldn't really be able to go for their concert as that was the same night as the dinner by the conference I was attending. but I got hooked to their music, again unexpectedly. because before and while in Lisbon, music-wise all I wanted to hear was some Fado. and all I managed of that was 5-10 minutes of standing in the doors of a couple Fado bars and quietly sneaking into the sad soulful singing and the hushed audience. it was beautiful. and yet that's not what I've taken with me of Lisbon music, but this above. probably because Fado live in a dark room such that the pain in the song escapes into the night outside is something that cannot really be captured on videos on youtube but this can.

little discoveries

following my mantra of exploring the cities I live in, I've been shyly driving around fort worth on my own a bit. one day I went chasing after a pink and purple sunset and found myself driving next to a field full of horses. I've had some mishaps of going off track and missing exits on highways. but another day I drove around the historic stockyard region and guess what I found. a hispanic collection of strip malls. I still have to explore all the places in here but so far I've found a grocery store with the colors and shapes of produce foreign and alien to me, with some 30 types of dried red chillies in a corner, and cacti and strange fruit.

and the strangest thing of all, despite existing in the US, this whole area has a feeling of having crossed the border. its difficult to find people on the other side of the check-out counter here who speak English. and because I am an ignorant brown person from across the world who cannot differentiate one Hispanic country from another, my first reaction was to think of them all as Mexicans.

but I also found this little market and restaurant there, that has heavenly meat, easily the best frita chicarron I have ever sampled. its so crisp on the outside and so tender when you break it, it almost feels like chunks of fried fish. there's a wide menu with a long list of pupusas and I have yet to sample 80% of what's on it, especially all that seafood. and yes, the freshest of jugo de naranja, freshly squeezed minutes before. and if you forget to specify 'pequena' then you will end up with a huge soup bowl sized glass on a stick. and of course, I am yet again trying to learn Spanish, and using this place as an incentive and practice platform. the other day some guy behind me in the check-out line went on for about 10 mins saying something about the broccoli that I was buying, looking at it with disdain and shaking his head in a warning-to-not-eat-it kind of a way, while I kept trying to catch a single word that I would understand, smiling all the while, not wanting to give away that I couldn't understand. and yet another day I saw some dancing in costumes, right inside the grocery store, on a wooden stage, with all that tapping of heels on wood. amazing energy.

oh yes, and then I figured out that the restaurant wasn't Mexican at all but Salvadorean, explaining why I hadn't eaten that chicarron frita anywhere else. because Mexican cuisine is abundant here, not so much Salvadorean. still have to try the Taqueria a few steps away, and still have to learn more Spanish than 'para illevar'.

btw a digression, I always wonder why potato fries are so popular all over the world when they are nothing compared to those golden fried yuccas.

the Monday myth of low domestic airfares

smart consumers are rare. and ill-based myths and perceptions abound amongst consumers. since ever, people have been trying to figure out that sweet spot of time before travel to book airfares to get the best deals. because people love rules of thumb, that help them avoid thinking. and all this would be good for someone who thinks time spent thinking is more expensive than the extra price she would pay without thinking. that's rational marginal analysis. but not everyone thinks like that, or is that rich.

so there are theories of how many weeks before your travel should you ideally buy air tickets to get good deals. and of course these time windows are different for domestic and international flights. and maybe there is some correct guess-work here. but think about it. if whatever the guess-work and whether its correct or not, as long as it becomes prevalent it is automatically ruled false simply because everyone (almost) is thinking the same thing. that is, if everyone thinks 3 weeks before is that sweet spot and everyone clusters to buy at that time then the demand will go up exactly then. airline algorithms that price dynamically as they track demand would therefore raise prices exactly then. if you were part of that crowd then, you end up paying a higher price than you would have if you hadn't clustered your demand with the market because some days later when no one is buying the prices may come down.

everyone has told me of the Monday theory of buying tickets. and they all claim it feeling very smart at the time they explain it to you. according to this theory, most people plan holidays and travel in general over the weekends because that is when they have the time to plan anything. so ticket prices are high on weekends because airlines are trying to cash in on the high demand. ok, so far. and then they say, on Monday when demand slumps again some airlines will drop prices, others will follow them to stay competitive, etc. etc. and Monday-Wednesday is a good time to buy. ok, so far again.

now think about what was just said. if there are a lot of people with this perception or those who believe in this theory-myth, then what will happen? all those people will wait for Monday before they buy. what would this do to the demand on the early days of the week? of course it would surge, and would be captured by the dynamic tracking of airline algorithms which would then lead to prices being raised instead of being lowered. there you go, the very existence or prevalence of the Monday myth rules it false.

there's something called k-level thinking in Game Theory in Economics. and that above was an excellent example of that. if your payoffs depend on a strategic situation involving similar players like yourself, then to get the best out of the situation you have to keep guessing what others will choose to do and you have to respond to that in the best way that you can. the Monday myth does sort of use it in as far as it thinks about weekend high demand and responding to that. but it falls short in being clever precisely because of the feeling of smartness that it allows in having accomplished the first-level of response, and it forgets that the extent of prevalence of such reasoning automatically makes it essential to go a level further, or maybe more levels further - depending on how many levels of thinking is done by how many people.

some days ago, nytimes.com had a simple game running on their website: everyone playing was asked to guess a number between 0 and 100 such that the number would be 2/3rd of the average of all such numbers guessed by everyone together. go figure. that's a pretty cool exercise in k-level thinking.

so when do I buy my tickets? if I state that out - given any domestic flyers read my blog which is probably none - it may cost me a k-level advantage that I currently have. but yeah, here's a hint - I have often tracked airfares for days and haven't really observed the Monday drop. moreover, I just booked something on Sunday morning that is priced lower than what it and others like it were this last week and I know I got one of the last couple of plain economy seats on it because I saw the seat map of availability when booking, and its schedule is really convenient to me. so I don't know if I won this round, but hey I'm competing not only against the airlines but against all those buyers out there too.

looking forward to this much planned half-day trip to DC. huh. damn airfares. hope there will be some fall foliage at least.

an immigrant's dilemma

this is going to be a long post, accumulating as many of my related emotions (been building up and growing for years now) as I can remember and understand enough to write about.

I recently fell out of the non-resident status for tax purposes here and am now considered a resident alien for tax purposes. and although I'm still an 'alien' here and am even now on a non-immigrant visa, which technically says that I'm not looking to live here (or as some would say 'settle' here) and that I am just a visitor, my visit has become too long to still be called that.

in my past six years here, I always claimed - and implemented my claim - that I couldn't stay here at a stretch without visiting home (India) for longer than a yr and a half. I'm coming close to that deadline soon now, and something seems to have changed; probably many things together. I'm no longer claiming that anymore, I no longer feel homesick for that tropical land far away. in fact, quite the opposite, I feel like I spent too much of my vacations in the last few years at home in India and that I no longer want to do that. this is partly because having suddenly emerged from an almost ascetic life of being a student and living on campus and never having enough money, I now want to walk a different path in life. having spent all those years devoted to Economics I now feel like I missed out on the world around me, on little things, on the freedoms of being a grown up (someone who has money to spend). and along with that comes an associated rejection of home. in short, I'm going through my second adolescence in life and this one has sort of come about with the (finally) possession of means (that are as yet, only expected, in the near future). I want to now make long road trips in this country, want to fly north into alaska, west into hawaii, south into the carribean and the latin american countries, and east into everywhere else. oh yes, India does creep into the places I want to explore as well, because I can hardly say I have explored my home country enough. but at the same time, India has its numerous constraints, for a single woman traveller as well as for an Indian because if I were in India a number of family obligations would influence what I do and where I'd be. so I have to shove it away in these plans for now. and yet I do want to see my family cos I fear I'll eventually become a fish out of water amongst them if I don't keep seeing them. and of course, no matter how much I argue and fight with them, there are bonds there that are beyond explanations. but yes, the most immediate thing I want to do with family is travel with my sister, its a wonder I haven't done it so far.

today on bbc world service I heard a reporting from India during my usual npr sessions while driving that I enjoy so much. they were covering some protests by young women to claim their right to be out on their own and at night. and listening to some of these women I realized a sudden pang of some unnamed emotion. it wasn't nostalgia, it wasn't a longing to be home; it was more as if I was a parent and I was missing out on watching my kid grow, take his/her first steps. something like that. and this isn't a new emotion. every time I've visited India since I came here to study, I've felt a little like this. its as if the country is on a rapid growth path, that I'm missing, and that makes me feel like its no longer what I thought it was. I feel proud and guilty and also disconnected and alien to the whole thing. and there's always a paternal feeling to it, a sort of condescension, because I feel it has a lot of catching up to do, a lot of growing up to do. and at the same time I feel like I don't really know it anymore because it has grown and changed so much, so maybe I'm totally wrong about where it is and what it is right now. who knows, but maybe that is ok because as Joan Robinson famously said, "Whatever you can rightly say about India, the opposite is also true." (I'm quoting a foreigner to describe my own country, the irony!)

I'm grateful to the US for having changed me the way it has. I have learned to be more liberal, more non-partisan, more objective in my views and much more accommodating in my expectations. I have learned to question everything and have accepted not knowing some (many) answers. and although even now I constantly check myself and am working on unlearning what I was taught at home, I know I pat my back often.

I remember once when I was a very young teenager, I was on a vegetable shopping trip with parents in a 'haat' or open market. and I was looking at all these calendar pictures of Hindu gods on the walls of some vendors and I asked my dad why these guys were so poor if they worshipped with such sincerity. or I may have asked why those who had the maximum display of religious worship were often poor. I don't remember my exact words, but in my memory both questions meant the same to me and I could have voiced either as a question. it may seem abrupt to bring this in suddenly, but this is just one of many examples that tell me how much I have changed and where I came from. I was brought up in a family where the origin of religious tales were not myths but were treated as history, where a number of little unconscious actions were considered insults against gods. where asking that question got me a sharp rebuke from my dad. now years later I know it is a common observation in the world not just between people in a country, but even across countries: that greater wealth is associated with a less fervent belief in god. and yet, today though I know I don't think of myself as belonging to any religion, I still feel like I can't shrug off a belief of something higher than mass and energy. in fact, recently I came across a theory in physics - the energy theory or something, I don't remember what name they've given it (here's a link to some related information: http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/a-new-physics-theory-of-life/) - that reinforced or corroborated to my mind, its belief in a larger design; if life exists because it is a better way to store energy, then that says that the very concept of mass had a future of life in it, by design!

but that is just one aspect of the change in me. everyday I fight the prejudices bordering on racism that I saw rampant around me growing up. and even now when I go back home, I sometimes have huge upsetting arguments with family and relatives about what I consider their openly racist views and perceptions. when they make statements like a particular color of skin is more beautiful than another, that particular racial facial types are more appealing than others, that nobility of birth can be seen on faces, etc, etc, etc. I'm half ashamed to hear of such views so close to home and yet it helps to know where I came from, what I was fed from an early age, because my process of cleaning up, of unlearning, begins only with the realization of what my learnings were.

and when I visit home I fall back so naturally into the social hierarchy in Indian society of the rich and the poor, the privileged and the servants, that I need a conversation with a friend here to expose its outrageous-ness. this friend (or rather my husband's friend) grew up in a communist-ic structure of life where all were equal, where everyone did their own work, at least in theory. they cleaned their houses themselves, cooked for themselves, etc. and she was outraged by our use of the word 'servants' to describe household help. that's another thing I love about the US and am grateful for: it allows me to do my dirtiest job with ease, without help. and at the same time, its not as if household help does not exist here, of course it does for those who want to pay for it. but there is a basic respect for a human being here, regardless of their occupation, that is missing back home. I'm not saying its independent of other factors, of course not, but that's precisely my point. in India where the poor are in such large numbers that they are fighting day to day just to stay alive, they can all hardly afford to be clean, honest, professional and industrious. while those qualities are almost universal here, at least to a degree, at least visibly. and maybe that's what helps maintain respect and professionalism even toward someone who may be cleaning professionally. or maybe the causation goes the other way, and my previous statement was a slim excuse trying to unburden my guilt of looking at the poor in India in a condescending manner. I don't know. all I know is that the US allows me to cook and clean for myself and even when and if I do buy these services I treat it as trade for services, in a professional manner. treating the other human being as an equal. whereas in India I've been taught not to and I'm ashamed of it when I sit here and think about it and yet when I'm there I don't bat a lid when I see and do it myself. I have never in my life seen household help in India eating with the family they are working for (even when the food has been cooked by them), nor have I ever felt like that was out of place, and nor have I ever asked for a change. I have often seen toilets being segregated between household help and family and have been taught that that was the hygienic thing to do. and yet, I feel happy and empowered and free and proud to cook and clean for myself here. and I feel glad then that I don't blame someone else for not doing the job well. and in fact I feel embarrassed if someone serving me - even in a restaurant - behaves even a bit obsequiously.

yes, hubby has been a great inspiration and even a teacher, in many ways. and my mom, too. these are two of the most open people I know from my past life (!), although mom belonging to another generation has different values, but she is always welcoming of criticism. as for hubby, I don't know where he got some of his liberal-ness because I don't see much of it in the rest of his family (there's a bit in his dad).

I've lost track of all that I wanted to say. maybe there will be a continuation to this post some day.. but yes, despite all the changes I see within me since I started observing my country from the outside and started judging what I was taught and what I was used to, more objectively, I still feel deeply an Indian. I'm still very shy in general and especially about my body, I still cannot disassociate sexual freedom from issues of morality.

I guess the day I stop wanting water to clean my behind and I start drinking coffee regularly, I will consider myself an American. maybe (hopefully?) that day will never come. till then I'm just an Indian in America who still doesn't have answers to many of her own questions, who still doesn't know what's the right way to be. but I'm exploring, I'm on this journey.

an appendix to the post below

a contradiction to my earlier self-censure for forming pictures of people in my head without meeting them in person. It turns out some people are in fact like what I pictured them although they don't look like that in person at all. funny how appearances deceive, that is, more information is sometimes regressive to knowledge.

on other things in life: I wish cars had cameras on their front and the controls lay on the steering wheel just like my synced phone and music controls do. sometimes when I drive back home around 5-5:30pm, toward the west where the sun is slowly retiring, the sky above the interstate is a mass of heavenly beauty, still blindingly bright - enough to have me blinking against it to see the road clearly - with the flat land and roads and barely-trees all seemingly surrendered before the mighty sky. but because I have to concentrate hard on maintaining my lanes at 60 miles/hr and not hitting neighborly cars I can never get my phone camera out and let go of the wheel. If only cars had cameras on their noses.

and yeah, it is so lovely to see the city from the highway, the tall-towers suddenly visible, piercing through the sky. and to know that home is somewhere there.

voices, pictures, and faces

its been difficult finding time to blog in the midst of moving to a new city, starting a new job, getting a new car (plus a new driving license), and learning how to live a non-student, grown-up life. but for a long time this idea had been buzzing around my head and I wanted to write it down to express myself and fully hear it out.

you know, when you talk to someone on the phone a number of times, or you exchange emails, such that unconsciously you construct a picture of them in your mind, unknowingly and innocently. something in the tone of their voice, the weight of it, the speed of it, the alertness in their responses, the way they use exclamation marks or not in their emails, the way they get what you're saying or not, the ease with which you can reach them or not, all of this translates in some uncontrollable formula into a mind-image. sometimes this mind-image even accommodates for the little profile pic of theirs that you've been looking at while talking to them, and yet often it blurs this little piece of reality and superimposes it with an idea of a face, of a personality, of a person.

to give a background, I got this job without meeting anyone in this place in person. yes, I saw that little pic on the webpage of the department chair who spoke to me on the phone the very first time. but despite seemingly knowing his face from that picture I did not recognize him when I faced him until he introduced himself. and then my surprise! the face looked like the picture and yet didn't. his face was much keener and more enthusiastic, and yet he was much less suspicious and laid-back than that face in my mind for him.

the woman who had been coordinating with me on my papers, let's call her B, I almost though I knew her. I expected to see someone middle aged and very average like in stature and otherwise with dark hair and maybe some glasses. the day I first walked into her office I was surprised to see a whale of a smiling woman, much sharper than I had expected and with a quick sense of humor that I had completely missed so far and that almost shocked me. and it wasn't just me. my size surprised her too, and involuntarily she laughed "are you 12 or something?".

the real estate agents I had been talking to on the phone. the first with one of those profile pics on gmail, who yet turned out to surprise me with her height and her agility but more than that with her eyes that looked me up and down not once but over and over again. guess, she was also comparing me with the mind-image in her head and with my dressed-for-an-occasion, google profile image.

the best was, this other agent who I could never get through to, on the phone. her mind-image is still in my head - an old woman with silvery hair, with glasses probably, and a slow manner. she turned out to be oldish yes, but tiny (smaller than me), cheerful, blonde, and very friendly. and she too was surprised, and said aloud "you are such a cute little thing".

I wonder if I dressed up the images in my mind cos I was surprised with the colors and shapes of some of their clothing.

and I wonder if I will ever learn from experience and some day not be at all surprised when I meet someone after a considerable no-face acquaintance.

http://gu.com/p/xk95m/stw


the interview is still running in my head.

Fathers

A touching episode of 'This American Life' from years ago. and it includes a beautifully honest narration in the form of a reading from 'You're not doing it right'.

I still wonder if 'love' is the word that describes what I feel for my dad. and I don't think I've ever said 'I love you' to him. in fact, even writing it right now while thinking about him, makes me feel really awkward. and I do not remember him ever saying it to me.

when I look back, I think I've gone from feeling fear and awe for him, to detachment, to anger and blame and (probably the natural teenager emotions) a longing to leave him and home and to never need his help, even revulsion and shame, to sympathy and prayers, and now finally to a mixture of acceptance, shame, gratitude, blame, affection, admiration, pity, and a strange urge to want to educate him in all that I feel his upbringing left out. more than all, I would so love to have a real, calm, and deep conversation with him, about life and things that matter. but I can hardly ever get out of him anything beyond rhetoric and cliches and borrowed phrases and repeated-till-they're-annoying opinions.

yet, I know he loves me, in some way. and I feel he shows it with all the financial help he keeps giving me, often without asking, even now. and sometimes - once or maybe twice, I've heard it in his regret that he wasn't rich and didn't give us more; although I never felt like I was deprived of anything, materially. and then I feel guilty for letting him live with that regret, for being unable to take it away from him; of course I've told him that I never needed anything more, that he gave me everything I ever wanted, but there's something about saying this after a regret to the contrary has been expressed - it doesn't feel sincere, anymore.

I haven't been grateful enough, and yet, even now, I want him to be the father I want him to be, not the one that he is.

new note #walkDC

Every day I learn of something else in DC so far unexplored, and although the weather has been really muggy, reminding me of bombay summer, once in a while I fight it and set out, again.

A friend of a friend I met recently in NYC, a girl also from India and with similar background as mine - smallish-town parents but she lived and grew up in multiple cities and locations in the Indian sub-continent - happened to mention that the NYC-DC contrast was analogical to the Bombay-Delhi contrast, in that order. I smiled and agreed. In my first few years in this country, I loved NYC, cos it was the closest to the chaos and crowds of India. But now I can without doubt say which city feels like home to me. NYC is perfect for a visit, but I always want to come back to the greenery, space, elegance and elaborate architecture of DC. I'm sure the seat of the capital has a lot to do with the analogy between the city comparison too - it lends to a certain idea and space planning, adding a spatial ambition, keeping the pomp and glory of the government uncluttered (which also has its flip-side, of course) and beautiful.

So this time it was Dumbarton Oaks gardens, one of the best in the world. Sadly, I learned of these after spring, and therefore my visit isn't really complete; will have to go next year at the right time. But a cloudy summer day wasn't half as bad, for the hour spent walking around these beautifully kept gardens. The mansion within the grounds is spectacular, the lovers' lane pool enchanting, the terrace gardens little joys of discoveries, and the lush lawns are soothing beyond words. The link below has a map, and of course, I add some phone pictures.

http://www.doaks.org/gardens/virtual-tour





I would have like to lie down and spend hours in some shady corner in the gardens but there is a reverent air among the handful of tourists who walk around in a hushed wonder, and that would seem like sacrilege.

The city tricked me that day into a long unplanned walk, after the gardens, in my flimsy sandals meant only to keep my feet breathing. The university route bus that I rely on whenever roaming around Georgetown did a vanishing act and a random co-sufferer informed me of the Capital Pride parade that was the cause. I was surprised as I hadn't heard the parade mentioned at all otherwise. so I trudged on, on P street, passing an adorable under-5 baseball game that made me smile and clap enthusiastically, and eventually walked head on into the parade. It was an awesome sight, although the only topless people were male. rainbow flags all around, and clothing the semi-clad. motor vehicles blocked from before Dupont Circle to around Logan Circle, and the procession driving and marching by, welcomed by the city turned out in support, cheering and hooting. I caught a pack of candy and a flashy blue necklace too, ate and wore respectively, bought a bottle of water to survive and replenish all that salt and water coming out as sweat, smelt that weird combination of crowd sweat, and walked for 4 miles, circling the parade. Oh yeah, an african american teenager near Columbia Heights also yelled out an obscene comment at me (those rare instances in this country when I get these, when they probably mistake me for one of them, esp when my Indian eyes are masked behind my sunglasses). I ignored him, not because I was scared (as would be in India) but because he was a kid, and because I know by experience that the approach to Columbia Heights isn't one of those places where I expect chivalry.

all in all, an awesome walk in a beautiful city, that left my feet sore. but at least I came back to hubby cooking spaghetti with meatballs. totally worth it.

Character #2 (and #3)

how could he have known that civilian life would be so isolating. all those years of youth spent (wasted?) in the army had left him now the oldest student in his classes. he just did not identify himself as one of them. always, always felt left out. it wasn't as if they weren't friendly, and it wasn't only that he himself was quite an introvert - at first at least. it was inexplicable. he didn't share their joy at living from day to day, lacked their enthusiasm for company, conversation, hanging-out as they called it, thought them to be juvenile. in fact, their presence almost infuriated him. and often he felt superior, in an accusatory and defensive way, if you know what I mean. like you do sometimes when you feel like your past, very different from those around you, defines you, and separates you from others, especially if you feel the others have been fortunate in ways that you didn't have the fortune to be.

so he determined himself to just pass through college, get his degree, and wait for life to happen outside, among grown-ups like himself, maybe.

college was fun though, apart from the people. he was doing well in his major, computer science. and the compulsories weren't bad either. economics sometimes felt so futile and removed from real people and markets. and yet there were days where it would strike a chord with someone in class and start a discussion. or when he himself caught the instructor after class to just talk about the economics in the world outside. she wasn't much liked, he felt; not by the other students. she tried to create a hierarchy between herself and the students, probably more so cos she was so small in stature and needed something to separate herself; probably cos she was too young and from a different country and didn't know otherwise. whatever her purpose, she managed to create hostility if not heirarchy; something of a separation at least. but he didn't mind her. maybe because he felt like she was on his side, against these young foolish teenagers.

in fact, even after her course was over and forgotten, he kept bumping into her on campus. and then he saw a different her, a more open, relaxed and friendly person; a younger girl, almost. was it the confines of the classroom that brought out the devil in her? or was it that now that he had successfully completed her course, he was a little more her equal? she always remembered and recognized, and would ask about him beyond the mindless and numb 'how are you's of most people.

he did get his degree one day, a really happy day. and looked at himself in the mirror. he had already nearly gone bald. and his thick spectacles made him look scholarly way beyond his education. could he see in the mirror that most people found his eyes very shifty? that most of those who knew him would never remember what color his eyes were? he saw not a college graduate but a middle aged man, just as lost though as a juvenile young adult about his life ahead. for a minute he was suddenly seized by an urgent need to share this moment with others, to maybe go out drinking with back-slapping guys. but he hadn't made too many friends, none so intimate.

working life absorbed him, almost suddenly and completely. and then one saturday evening, tired of the television and the pizza that he had ordered and unable to think of anyone at work he wanted to spend some time with, he started racking his brain for memory of friends in the city. and then suddenly, he wrote an email to her. to reconnect and maybe get to know her. 'would she mind catching up? just getting to know each other. didn't have to be a date'. he thought about it, it shouldn't be a big deal or anything. he wasn't her student anymore, so no conflict of interest, etc. etc.

I have been reading the epic-sized novel 'A suitable boy' by Vikram Seth for months now. after owning it for a little over six years. it took great determination to start it, not because I did not want to read it - quite the opposite, but because I couldn't picture myself successfully finishing its 1350 or so pages. it is an amazing story though, that seems almost to take over and tell itself, creating images and emotions in the mind's eye, despite its long list of characters. its a good time too, to be reading this, as the world waits anxiously for Seth's sequel to it.

so I picked it up again today, anxious to get to more of the story, to work my way through this universe of people in newly independent India. and within minutes, after a slightly knit brow reading and wondering about the aftermath of the stampede and stabbings (by angry and trapped naga sadhus) in a suddenly stalled Pul Mela procession in the story, I put the heavy book down. there's this section in the story soon after the disaster, that describes the Indian condition and reaction (then and now) so well; I just had to pen it down:


"The newspapers, which had been consistently lauding the 'commendably high standard of the administrative arrangements' came down heavily on both the administration and the police. There were a great many explanations of what had happened. One theory was that a car which supported a float in the procession had overheated and stalled, and that this had started a chain reaction.

Another was that this car belonged not to a procession but to a VIP, and should never have been allowed on the Pul Mela sands in the first place, certainly not on the day of Jeth Purnima. The police, it was alleged, had no interest in pilgrims, only in high dignitaries. And high dignitaries had no interest in the people, only in the appurtenances of office. The Chief Minister had, it was true, made a moving statement to the press in response to the tragedy; but a banquet due to be held that same evening in Government House had not been cancelled. The Governor should at least have made up in discretion what he lacked in compassion.

A third said that the police should have cleared the path far ahead of the processions, and had failed to do so. Because of this lack of foresight the crowd at the bathing spots had been so dense that the sadhus had not been able to move forward. There had been bad coordination, poor communication, and under-staffing. The police had been manned by dictatorial but ineffectual junior officers in charge of groups of policemen from a large number of districts, a motley collection of men whom they did not know well and who were unresponsive to their orders. There had been less than a hundred constables and only two gazetted officers on duty on the bank, and only seven at the crucial juncture at the base of the ramp. The Superintendent of Police of the district had been nowhere in the vicinity of the Pul Mela at all.

A fourth account blamed the slippery condition of the ground after the previous night's storm for the large number of deaths, especially those that had taken place in the ditch on the edge of the ramp.

A fifth said that the administration should - when organizing the Mela in the first place - have used far more of the comparatively empty area on the northern shore of the Ganga for the various camps in order to relieve the predictably dangerous pressure on the southern shore.

A sixth blamed the nagas, and insisted that the criminally violent akharas should be disbanded forthwith or at any rate disallowed from all future Pul Melas.

A seventh blamed the 'faulty and haphazhard' training of the volunteers, whose loss of nerve and lack of experience precipitated the stampede.

An eighth blamed the national character.

Wherever the truth lay, if anywhere, everyone insisted on an Inquiry. The Brahmpur Chronicle demanded 'the appointment of a committee of experts chaired by a High Court Judge in order to investigate the causes of the ghastly tragedy and to prevent its recurrence'. The Advocates' Association and the District Bar Association criticized the government, in particular the Home Minister, and, in a strongly worded joint resolution, pronounced: 'Speed is of the essence. Let the axe fall where it will.'

A few days later it was announced in a Gazette Extraordinary that a Committee of Inquiry with broad terms of reference had been constituted, and that it had been requested to pursue its investigations with all due promptitude. "



Notice how the section is descriptive not only in its content, but also in its length - of just a page - describing accurately, the abrupt end of such post mortem discussion as it always happens in India, with a unanimous call for the capitalized 'Inquiry'. And the narrative of the story moves on, to other things.

a selfish life so far

Having spent most of my life, so far, studying; having quit or left incomplete the random few jobs that I did take up; and in short, having contributed nothing of significance to the world or society in general, and remaining hungrily only at the receiving end, I feel immensely selfish at this point in my life. Unapologetically so, although very conscious of the fact.

I have always wanted to donate, volunteer, or rise up for a social cause. but that's my romantic ambition, more than anything else. my calling in life does seem to be the role of a sponge, to absorb continuously and never-end-ingly. and now I've realized the best way to be a sponge - when I'm alone. call it age or wisdom or an acceptance of solitude or self, but it has lately dawned on me why travelling alone has been revered so. plus, my definition of travel has changed. to be fair though, I always was kinda against the idea of short, weekend-ish trips to new places, but now even the concept of a long-ish trip has changed. I want not to pass through places, but to live in them, and move on to others.

DC has been kind and tractable for an almost slow person like me. its abundant impressive architecture, its colorful peoples, its ease of commuting and culture of walking, its varied culinary scene, the Potomac river, its parks and gardens and the benches within and roadside, its beautiful spring, its greenery, have altogether mesmerized me. and the list doesn't seem to end. for the first time in my life, I have started carrying a little sketchpad whenever I wander the city alone. and there's so much to capture, in details, unlike what a quick click would. Of course, not everything I want to capture, gets attempted; because very often my courage fails me to try and pencil what's in front of me onto my pad. but I am slowly learning to allow myself to try, despite the fear of failure. and it feels good.

It felt good to sit atop the little hill of Bookhill park trying to capture the street corner below me with the park sloping down toward it, to ring the church bell and sit within, first staring at the ceiling and its wooden beams supporting the conical roof and then copying it into my pad (the eventual curiosity of a nun did make me leave earlier than I would have liked to), to sit in the Freedom Plaza and watch (with other strangers) the youth skateboarding around - cheering them, and then drawing the skyline with the beautiful tower-like structures in the background; and then most recently, to walk without a purpose through the National Gallery of Art and finding sculptures so captivating that I just had to dig out the pencil and pad again. the thing about sculptures is (its also the thing about life or still-life for that matter, but not about scenes so much cos you cannot traverse the distance easily) you can revolve around it and choose the angle that you like best. NGA has some crucial Rodin pieces right now, and a beautiful one by Rimmer and a Magni (perfectly located by a window) that I stared at and couldn't resist drawing (the latter especially, very unsuccessfully).

The sculpture by Pietro Magni is in the picture below - The Reading Girl; the clothes, the chair, and the pages of the book look and feel (touch of imagination, because of course real touch isn't allowed) like fabric, bamboo/cane, and real paper (much used); and the girl even has a small tear near her left eye, all carved beautifully in marble.

I'm becoming a fan, of the person that she is. Of course, she is a good actress too

bookstores

My earliest memory of a bookstore is that of Good Books in the town/lil city where I first established my identity as a lil brown girl with a serious face and earnest big black eyes who was boring enough to prefer to be curled up with a comic than play with her cousins or friends. I don't remember if the city even had another bookstore or if this was by choice everyone's 'go-to' place. I remember how books were a luxury those days, and we went there only to buy school textbooks and stationary. the entry aisle of Good Books was full of colorful stationary, those colorful pencils that had lil white black bits that you used and pushed to the back to discard. all those strange shapes and sizes of erasers and sharpeners, and pencil boxes, ... As expected, a trip to the place would often end in tantrums from me or my lil sis and a sharp rebuke or a giving in by my father. Most often over stationary, stuff that wasn't really needed, but desired, because so-and-so in class had something similar, or even better if no one had seen anything like it before.

Like I said we didn't really buy books then, outside of textbooks. And so it was pointless making a fuss over wanting books from the store because I knew there would be no giving in to that. This was also probably because my father doesn't believe in buying books at all. His cliched answer to a request or a desire to buy, is, "Go to a library". A book purchase to him is a wastage because the thing will lie on a shelf at home long after it has provided its one-read use. There were of course other cliches that went along with it, as the demand for a book was almost always that for some fiction, and according to him reading too much fiction made a person starry-eyed and removed from reality. It was therefore not my choice to accept that we did not buy unnecessary books, because that was what I was born into.

My mother however had come from a different setup at her home, and encouraged my enthusiasm for the written word. She would get me comics now and then. Whatever she could get her hands on at nearby multi-goods mom-and-pop shops because Good Books was far to get to without papa. And of course there were gifts of books from aunts and relatives, and prizes from schools in the form of books. all in all I had quite enough in the first seven years of my life in the city that housed Good Books. but yes, the awe of the bookstore is still real for me. All those colorful picture books in the aisles, those Enid Blytons (I think I was just starting out on those), and gloss and color and hardcovers where ever your eye went.

When we left that city when I was 7-8 yrs old, I followed papa's advice and devoured what I could from the library shelves of the schools I flitted between. And yes, I won many more prizes in the forms of books. Looking back now, the good thing then with limited access to books was that I did not own a single book I hadn't read from cover to cover. Unlike now, when I donate unread books to libraries when its time for me to move from a city, and feel sorry for myself and yet elated that it will be available to others like me in those libraries.

To cut the meanderings short, once I owned some money and could buy what I wanted, I started loving exploring bookstores. I'd spend a lot of time in bookstores, weaving through aisle after aisle, exploring unknown titles and names, reading the back covers, getting egged on if I found authors I knew and had read. In fact I re-explored my love of reading in these years because high school and college and the years of explorations of other kinds had taken me away from books. To be fair though, my college yrs brought it back to me, with a lag of some years, because one third of my bachelors degree was English Literature. The age of physical bookstores was exciting because it allowed one to unwind and spend time with multiple covers without the desire or need to buy one. Although till date, I feel guilty if I spend time in a bookstore and then leave without buying a single book. More often than not, I would go to bookstores simply to spend time and read and browse through books, with no clear plan of buying anything. But I'd end up buying one book, because my guilt would overcome my repeated self-instruction not to buy till I had read everything I already owned. A visit to a bookstore was to me almost like going for a walk in a park, to take in all the beauty and smells around me, of rows and rows of books and the smell of fresh new pages. But without intending to, I couldn't come away without paying my tribute of thanks and buying something. so I bought quite a few books then, read many of them, collected more and gave away some. it was all worth it, but yes, like papa would say I wasted a bit, not only in those that I bought and read once, but in those that I never read.

Some years ago I started buying ebooks. This changed my buying and browsing habits completely. I visit bookstores very rarely now, made worse by the fact that many have closed down. I do my browsing on the internet now, and its not active browsing when I want to buy a book. Like before I rarely really want to buy books. But now I follow major sources of book reviews and releases, look out for titles and names if people mention them to me, archive all I would want to buy in my Amazon wishlist, and buy on whim when I hear or read about some book and suddenly want to read it. Auto-delivered wirelessly, instantly available to read, when the whim arises, this kind of buying is new but very attractive. What I do miss is strolling through and kneeling by shelves and rows of books, even virtually. Because I hardly ever even look back into my wishlist shelves; the fact that a title is in my wishlist implies that the whim or urge to buy it was not strong enough. Or else I would be reading it already.

Given this personal cultural shift in the pursuit of books, a visit today to Politics & Prose took me back to the good-old-days. Unlike some other surviving bookstores I have peeped into lately, this is as if the world hadn't changed. As if the discovery of ebooks had been reversed. As if a pity for physical bookstores was a thing for the future, science fiction. Its not just a huge store, it is alive in a way that the bookstores of my childhood and youth used to be. Agreed most of the crowd had come like me to listen to a Nobel laureate promote his book. But even before and after the talk, even with people far away from the crowd surrounding him, there was something that I thought was lost. Those engrossed faces, that seemed to not notice the pain in their arms under the weight of hardcovers precariously balanced, and that strange combination of conversation and silence. And all this at 8:30 in the evening when the neighborhood around had already retired for the day and the streets were quiet, while the cafe in the basement was ringing alive with the sound of live singing and guitars. I wanted to spend hours in a bookstore yet again. I did however come away because home was far and I needed to get home before too late. Of course I bought something, but today I had gone with the plan of buying. I had wanted a blank sketchbook, but I bought two. One lil one to get to know how to hold my pencil again, and the more revered hard bound one as a reward for when in the future I will feel like I deserve it.

Bruce Dickinson: Faith And Music (1999)

The closest words I've heard that reflect my own idea of 'God'

more DC with the much awaited cherry blossoms

DC is a beautiful city

In TX my university was my city for lack of getaways. and now in DC the city is becoming my university as I wonder, stop, study, play.

after days of really hard work, I couldn't resist the city today; more so because it was a golden day.

but so unlike the golden days in the lone star state.

this was TX where you could see far into the horizon for lack of admirable architecture, and cos of those famous flatlands (even more enhanced in this picture cos these were the university soccer fields). where the sky was often the most beautiful thing, with brushstrokes of clouds and color.

and this in contrast, is DC. romancing a young spring.

Corcoran College/Museum of Art

Fountain in the midst of Dupont Circle (where I sat sunning for a long time; watching a random guy dancing to his headphones and a toddler in pink, totally fascinated with him)

Embassy of Iraq (with some municipal inspection going on)

Some church on 18th street

Tulips in a private garden

still don't know the name of these flowers; in pink and white. are these magnolias? I always knew those trees to be evergreen(?)

Blossoms (name unknown) with the House of the Temple in the background

Meridian Hill Park

came upon this

the following, by Joan Naviyuk Kane



In a House Apart




You hurt me, then,
Burnt a bird’s white plumage—
Claim that we are the better for it,
That we will heal in time.

Strident and inaccurate
Despite all proximity,
The mountains no longer
Made me feel better.

The year in its wheel of winter
And its small cylinder of light
In excess. Far pillars could
Resemble human figures

Though only rock rises
From some progression
Of dust, demand, and rotten
Wood. I place my hand on stone
And become stone myself.

small and big news around the world

ugh. Netanyahu again. :(((

on another note, some churches in the western world let muslims pray inside them. St. John's Church, Waterloo deserves applause for this, for bridging gaps between religious groups especially by reaching out to those who cannot find mosques in their immigrant land. although I do not understand why christian idols would need to be covered while such a service was on???

anyway sadly the orthodox devouts step in to stop this, just as expected. http://www.christiantoday.com/article/no.more.muslim.prayer.services.in.churches.says.bishop/50159.htm

I walked into a similar service in a church here the other day. but it was better, nothing was covered, and anyone could join in whatever garb they had on. some people were simply using praying space to pray in the only way they knew. we should open up all houses of prayer to peoples of all religion. in fact I later learned of another church here that allows muslim services. not naming them cos the orthodox hawks can't be trusted to let them pray in peace.

why have people stopped blogging?

I'm reduced to reading my own blog.. posts from the past.

is it strange that I enjoy it a lot??

its like getting to know myself, from outside myself. and I like what I see. vanity, pride, or simply a lack of regret?

lovesong - Ted Hughes

the poem is disturbing. the love making almost violent. and yet it ends with this beautiful imagery.

"Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face"


... and I didn't know whether I was dreaming of sleeping with you or sleeping with you and dreaming.

rape in india

the problem doesn't need more living-room opinions of which people are more likely rapists and/or what a woman's responsibility is to her own safety. so plain and simple I found some statistics,

http://ncrb.nic.in/CD-CII2013/CII13-TABLES/Table%205.2.pdf

and there's more here in the Tables of 'crimes against women'.

http://ncrb.nic.in/

I do understand there are biases due to under-reporting and that those may be skewed in some regions. Till more data and evidence..

philosophy, psychology, economics, ...

I've just started reading Adam Smith's 'Theory of Moral Sentiments' (led to it by Vernon Smith's podcast on econtalk, of course), and I don't know what I'd expected from it, but I am surprised. to think that he wrote this in 1759. phew. its pretty spot on, and I'm just in the first few pages. and although the language is a little rambling, such that I have to reread some sentences and add some imaginary punctuation or remove some unnecessary ones, he does a beautiful job of expression. so here's an excerpt from somewhere in the beginning of the book where he's talking about judgment and empathy although the word 'empathy' did not exist then.

".... it is always disagreeable to feel that we cannot sympathize with him, and instead of being pleased with this exemption from sympathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we cannot share his uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his misfortunes, which, however, upon bringing the case home to ourselves, we feel, can produce no such violent effect upon us, we are shocked at his grief; and, because we cannot enter into it, call it pusillanimity and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other hand, to see another too happy or too much elevated, as we call it, with any little piece of good fortune. We are disobliged even with his joy; and, because we cannot go along with it, call it levity and folly. We are even put out of humour if our companion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it deserves; that is, than we feel that ourselves could laugh at it.

When the original passions of the person principally concerned are in perfect concord with the sympathetic emotions of the spectator, they necessarily appear to this last just and proper, and suitable to their objects; and, on the contrary, when, on the bringing the case home to himself, he finds that they do not coincide with what he feels, they necessarily appear to him unjust and improper, and unsuitable to the causes which excite them. To approve of the passions of another, therefore, as suitable to their objects, is the same thing as to observe that we entirely sympathize with them; and not to approve of them as such, is the same thing as to observe that we do not entirely sympathize with them. The man who resents the injuries that have been done to me, and observes that I resent them precisely as he does, necessarily approves of my resentment. The man whose sympathy keeps time to my grief, cannot but admit the reasonableness of my sorrow. He who admires the same poem, or the same picture, and admires them exactly as I do, must surely allow the justness of my admiration. He who laughs at the same joke, and laughs along with me, cannot well deny the propriety of my laughter. On the contrary, the person who, upon these different occasions, either feels no such emotion as that which I feel, or feels none that bears any proportion to mine, cannot avoid disapproving my sentiments on account of their dissonance with his own. If my animosity goes beyond what the indignation of my friend can correspond to; if my grief exceeds what his most tender compassion can go along with; if my admiration is either too high or too low to tally with his own; if I laugh loud and heartily when he only smiles, or on the contrary, only smile when he laughs loud and heartily; in all these cases, as soon as he comes from considering the object, to observe how I am affected by it, according as there is more or less disproportion between his sentiments and mine, I must incur a greater or less degree of his disapprobation: and upon all occasions his own sentiments are the standards and measures by which he judges of mine.

To approve of another man's opinions is to adopt those opinions, and to adopt them is to approve of them. If the same arguments which convince you convince me likewise, I necessarily approve of your conviction; and if they do not, I necessarily disapprove of it: neither can I possibly conceive that I should do the one without the other. ...."

winter sleep

Heard that roofs have crashed in Boston under the weight of the snow this month. and there's more snow starting today. I couldn't imagine living in Boston. it almost feels as if humans are fighting against nature in places that have become near-uninhabitable. here itself the cold is awful and long drawn, and yet nothing near the reality of humans buried in snow. although the wind does carry the trauma of bostonians into our ears. such that I've taken off my earrings for the entire winter. better unadorned than freezing with cold metal biting into them. and morning runs are painful without my ear-band.

And yet winter is good. it is fresh, and so alive, to be out in the cold hiding from the wind in the hood and in those pockets. it makes me feel so alert. and of course staying indoors while the white feathery precipitation blows around. uncertain whether to layer the earth. for now giving in to the wind and waiting it out. winter is bare and ruthless and yet so far from death or stillness.

it was therefore good timing to go watch 'Winter Sleep'. in an out of nowhere, pop-up Angelika. with about 20 seats, us in the second row, and not more than 5 others filled. sleeping the winter out is such a bummer, why would any animals want to do it? even if we hadn't invented heating and clothing and snowblowers etc. and were forced to stay indoors or rather under-earth, we wouldn't help being awake I'm sure. like me in my unemployed status right now for example. lazy and passive, yet hardly napping. or like the ppl in winter sleep: biting at each other, clawing, snapping, driven by their own motives and convictions of self-heroism or despair.

the movie teetered at the edge of a sopa opera. yet was real enough not to tumble down that alley, allowing forgiveness among and for the characters, saving the conversation within and without from becoming sentimental. sort of like the only kind of hibernation humans are capable of.

and we all are in some sense always like that. supremely proud of our work our achievements however admirable or small, however tangible or imagined, leading to an arrogance that naturally miniaturizes others; those others around us, who can only weaken us, attack us, reduce us. and continue to do so, till they have debased us to such a point where we fight back out of urgency. fight back with self-pity, with self-righteousness, with fists of blame and indignation that help our way back. to "resurface to the top like oil".

someone once said to me how important information was. information from one human to another about the latter. and vice versa when possible. its like what Smith (Vernon) was talking about in the podcast the other day: how a person sees and realizes what s/he is only through the reactions and feedback others give. and yet civility dilutes such feedback and substitutes it with politeness, when the external is deceiving. on the other hand breakdown of civility often results in anger and then censure without information, mutual and tit-for-tat. it is then that our inner voices deceive us. between the two, or probably with some filtering of both lies true information. in both cases, it is information that is sacred, and possibly scarce too. it is information we need, and we must give. yes, with caution, with care but also with honesty. and we should learn to take too.