Update on Patient Deportation

In August a fellow Chimerical blogger posted the NYTimes article and slideshow about Luis Jiminez, a Guatemalan undocumented worker who suffered the injustices of a highly flawed and sometimes inhumane American health care system. She pointed out the significance of Mr. Jiminez's story, raising some critical issues and gritty questions that are hardly ever addressed in main stream public forums. (See Below)

This article about Luis Jimenez, a Guatemalan illegal immigrant who was deported back to his country by a private hospital is particularly representative of the dismal crossroads between the two heavy issues: Immigration and Health-care.
Check out the slide-show and also go back and see the video featured (along with the article of course). His reading of the letter towards the end, brought tears to my eyes and simultaneously provoked extreme anger. How do we rectify such things? What would be the just outcome in this case?
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/08/01/us/20080803DEPORT_index.html

Today, the New York Times featured another article entitled "Deported in a Coma, Saved Back in U.S" about these issues and the similar story of Antonio Torres.

Getting Tough

Deported in a Coma, Saved Back in U.S.

By DEBORAH SONTAG

Published: November 9, 2008

Antonio Torres’s case illustrates the haphazard way that the health care system handles uninsured immigrants.

His story is one that is not only characterized by the same outrageous indifference to humanity and patient welfare, but also a dismissal of potential alternatives to cross-border shuffling of immigrant patients. THIS time the patient was a LEGAL immigrant without insurance whose rights were clearly overlooked. Yet, today's article also provides some hope (with a brief reference to the article about Mr. Jiminez).

In October, the California Medical Association, responding to an article in The New York Times about the medical deportation of a brain-injured Guatemalan, passed a resolution opposing the forced repatriation of patients. The American Medical Association is to take up the matter on Sunday at a national meeting in Orlando.

So far, the article seems to do a good job of delineating the complexity of this issue for both health care institutions and patients without losing sight of key areas that need reform. I'll follow up with a more completel post when I've finished reading the whole thing. :)

Our stars, our stripes.

Let's take back the flag, darlings. We, who are women of color and children of immigrants. So-called patriots have besmirched our red, white, and blue so it reeks of xenophobia and fundamentalism.

We refuse to be had. We'll tear our spangled banner free from its redwashed associations and put it back where it belongs: in the shimmering mosaic of an international, interfaith, interdependent humanity.

In order to form a more perfect union, let us reclaim what is rightfully ours. This flag is ours.

(This post was inspired by Roger Cohen's column in this morning's New York Times.)

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

It's getting chilly in New York (and everywhere else too I suppose). And I've been returning home later and later every evening. My nightly walk to my apartment along lamp-lit 29th Street evoke a certain mood. I want to write about these cold, windy nights and the yellow orbs of street lamps as I see them through the smudged lens of my glasses. But I don't have the energy to write at the moment. My supervisor says I need to sleep more and wake up earlier. (ha) So, I let T.S. Eliot do it for me. I have drafts and half-drafts of posts about a variety of topics, ranging from politics and music to men. And believe me, they are not all melancholy - some aren't even that thoughtful. But with barely enough time to shower between work and sleep, I share this poem as a reminder of how poetry, a beautiful song or a thoughtful image can illuminate even the most dismal of days (or nights).


TWELVE o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory 5
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark 10
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered,
The street-lamp muttered, 15
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand, 20
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach 25
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard, 30
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, 35
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter.
"So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.I
could see nothing behind that child's eye. 40
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him. 45
Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered
,The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon, 50
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory. 55
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells 60T
hat cross and cross across her brain.
"The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets, 65
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,"Four o'clock, 70
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount. 75
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

It's the only path to righteousness, he said.

Every now and then I kid myself into believing I've moved beyond worrying what others think of me - but then I catch myself. True, my recent dedication of self and vocation to social justice issues has put off old friends and family members. But I'm still starstruck by other forms of prestige, especially now that saving the world is in vogue. Top business schools offer special programs for "social entrepreneurs." A popular website, idealist.org, hosts Graduate School Fairs for the Public Good all over the country (I attended the one in San Francisco a couple weeks ago). Even in choosing a placement organization for my year of service in the Lutheran Volunteer Corps, I persuaded myself that working for a slick, business-minded nonprofit organization was the wisest choice.

Nowadays I conjure up ways to pay lip service to my concern for others while keeping safely within the bounds of the reasonable and acceptable to other people. Like joining a cohort of sorely needed young leaders on the nonprofit Executive Director track. Or going to an Ivy League grad school. Or spinning a comfortably legitimate profession into an opportunity to do good. Accounting, say, or law. I don't care much for medicine, but it's a good example since people are always making lofty claims about why they decided to go to med school. Underlying my cautious plans is an ever-present, ever-human fear that I might never amount to anything. I squirm at the thought of leaving my fate to the whim of God and reckless circumstance.

My vocational vacillation reminds me of the frustration I feel with politicians who make lukewarm statements that they know in their hearts to be wrong. We've all heard their faithless words; we've watched them pay for votes with compromises. Sure, maybe the other guy is worse, but where do you draw the line? When do you flip the switch between staying likable enough for others' approval and having the courage to make unlikable decisions?

If you never want to settle for half-truths and tepid compromises, you may well have to get used to a new direction in life: down.

I've begun to suspect that the world will get no better until each one of us finds the humility to give up our quests for personal glory (your name on a brick, as Dr. Manning used to say). Until then, we will perpetuate the systems that legitimize us and appease our fearful egos. We will find excuses to look down upon our neighbors' differences and miss the value and dignity of each human being within.

Downward mobility is a lonely and lightly trodden path. But there's a freedom in it. I don't have to plan or predict where I'll be in a year, who will be a part of my community, or what will become of me. My life need not follow anyone's tired but true formula. What would happen if I surrendered control to the God I claim to trust? Could I let myself be so vulnerable? What would happen if I lived by heart?

Looking for a lazy afternoon and a hug

to help me deal with the "ever-changing climate" of my heart (and the North)

"I bare my windowed self untamed and untrained
Dreams that hardly touch our complexions truest faults
If room enough for both my drowsy spirit shall fall
Bold waves tumble to the season of my heart
You have offended my faith and my trust
Until all is lost into the beauty of the day" (thank you JM for feeding my sentimentality)

Beautiful yellow, orange-hued afternoons, purple-pink sunsets that fill my soul with contentment and contemplation have all but ceased to offer themselves for my enjoyment since I arrived in New York. I yearn for simple things: true friends, a lazy afternoon, late night conversations over tea, a warm shawl to share and the understanding of meditational silence between two people who love unconditionally and profoundly. Relatively, of course, I am lucky. Most of the people I love are a few hours bus ride away, within the same country or always available telephonically. But my effusive, affectionate heart wants a sister, friend, family to embrace right now, both physically and emotionally. I am a fragile being in need of receiving and bestowing the multitudes of love and affection that I feel.

More-than-a-snapshot memory: Cindy, Alia and I once drove to Lake Murray at 3 AM. We lay next to each other on top of Cindy’s car listening to everything and nothing, relishing our nostalgia and ignoring the commencement of journeys that would take each of us in very different directions. Inside the car the radio was softly playing. Lyrics of songs drifted to our ears and mingled with the sound of crickets, lapping water, the rustling of trees and distant conversations. “It’s not always rainbows and butterflies, it’s compromise that moves us along. My heart is full and my door’s always open, you can come anytime you want.” Everything in that moment thankfully suited the mood of our still, but magical starry night. With a few hours left to go before my departure from South Carolina and another long journey back to Virginia, we found an exquisitely beautiful reminder - lakeside and in harmony with the beauties of nature - of our friendship’s core. And for me, preserved in that memory is the reminder of what true friendship is and how the world lends itself to cultivating such moments when you really need it. Thank you, God, for every blessing.

"No hay camino"

Empiezo mi ultimo ano de bachillerato pensando en este poema de mi querido poeta, Senor Antonio Machado. De lo cual, yo enfoco en los sentidos no-existencialistas porque siempre hay impactos y consecuencias aunque no los quiera. Disfrute!

Proverbios y cantares, XXIX
Por Antonio Machado

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino:
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
Y al volver la vista átras
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
Sino estelas en la mar.

Awaiting Ramadan...

But this is for anyone who has ever fasted, of any faith or creed.

Or maybe just for people who like milkshakes and dates.

Medjool Date Shake

ENERGY BOOSTING MEDJOOL DATE SHAKE
The Ultimate Energy Drink. Serves Two

Ingredients
1 Cup chopped, pitted dates

1 cup skimmed milk

6 scoops French Vanilla ice cream.

1/2 teaspoon grated fresh nutmeg.

Directions: Combine milk and dates in a blender and puree. Add ice cream and grate the fresh nutmeg into blender. Mix until smooth. Serve immediately.

Variations: Replace ice cream with non-fat frozen yogurt.

Try adding other fruits

Nandalal Bose

The Slideshow:

Art & Design

An Indian Modernist

National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi

Published: 20080820

A selection of works by the painter Nandalal Bose, which are on display at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

The Article:

Art Review

Indian Modernism via an Eclectic and Elusive Artist

By HOLLAND COTTER

Published: August 20, 2008

“Rhythms of India: The Art of Nandalal Bose (1882-1966)" delivers a significant piece of news: that modernism wasn’t a purely Western product sent out to a hungry and waiting world.

Ode to my motherland

I am here. You are there. Circumstances have separated us, but you will forever remain in my mind, my heart and my soul. Just because I am with my adopted mother, does not mean I have forgotten the values you imparted. Some day we will be reunited when this estrangement I can no longer bear. O mother, where else will I go?

Translation of the Indian National Anthem, one of the many jewels that Rabindranath Tagore bestowed us with:

"Thou are the ruler of the minds of all people, dispenser of India's destiny.
The name rouses the hearts of Punjab, Sind, Gujurat and Maratha.
Of the Dravid and Orissa and Bengal.
It Echoes in the hills of Vindhyas and Himalayas, mingles in the music of Yamuna and Ganga and is chanted by the waves of the Indian Sea.
They pray for your blessing and sing thy praise.
The salvation of all peaople is thy hand, thou dispenser of India's destiny.
Victory, Victory, Victory to thee."

Poor Sheep...Poor Butcher

From the NYT Baghdad Bureau:

Bloody Blessing Goes Unnoticed
By Campbell Robertson
Published: August 13, 2008
The ritual killing of sheep at an official dedication ceremony isn't particularly noteworthy in the Middle East, but for a Westerner it adds an element of drama.

"Immortalize my words"

While I admire our fellow blogger's enthusiasm and motivation to write ghazals, I hesitate to partake. Poetry is far from my forte (well, writing in general is). So while I ponder and let my muse inpire me, I shall listen to the great Indian maestros such as Pankaj Udhas and Jagjit Singh and hope for some creativity to flow:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzruTCf1ZoU

Rough English translation:

Touch my song with your lips, make it immortal:
Be my beloved, make my love immortal.
No restriction of age, not the bond of lives:
When someone loves should see only the soul:
By carving new trend, make the trend immortal.
Loneliness of the sky is in my lone heart:
With rattling paayal enter into my life:
By giving own breaths make the music immortal:
Make the music immortal, make my song immortal.
World snatched from me, whatever was beloved to me:
All won from me, I lost at every moment:
By losing your heart you make my victory immortal.

Let's Write Ghazals!

I thought some poetry would be an excellent way to relax after this weekend/week. When I think of ghazals, I can't help but remember the great Mughal monuments and palaces I visited in India. Pensive and caught up in my own fanciful rusticity, I would indulge in the sublime beauty of my surroundings and imagine myself a dancing girl, a musician or even a poet in the midst of the artistic opulence of the Mughal court. Yes, I am indeed a spoony old thing at heart, aren't I? *wink*

We'll work on our ghazals throughout this week during breaks and random moments of inspiration - then present them next week. Good, bad, funny, tragic, whatever - we'll share the fruits of our laborious creativity soon. Disclaimer: I pretty much suck at poetry.

WIKIHOW - How to write a Ghazal:

Steps

1. Decide what your radif is going to be. Every verse ends with the same word or group of words (radif). It makes sense to choose one that can be flexible in use and meaning, so you can use it in different ways in each verse.
2. Consider what your qaafiya is going to be. The qaafiya is a rhyme that precedes the radif. Again, pick something with lots of possibility.
3. Get writing! A ghazal consists of a series of couplets (two-line verses), with each line containing the same number of syllables. Each couplet is a separate, complete mini-poem, so there's no need for any narrative progression, or any real connection between the couplets. Both lines of the first verse end with the qaafiya and radif. See down the page for an example ghazal.
   

Tips

• You're bound to make a few false starts, and you'll soon realise that your choice of radif is the single most important factor in determining how successful your ghazal is likely to be.
• Traditional topics include love
  
• Traditionally, the poet's pen-name was included in the last verse; this final couplet usually contains a 'turn', or change of tone, to something more personal or quirky.
• Remember, each couplet constitutes a separate little poem, so don't have one verse rely on a previous one to make sense.
  

Example Ghazal

In this example, the radif is "I do not know", while the qaafiya (the rhyme preceding it) is -ate, as in slate, fate, depreciate, etc. In the example, each line contains 14 syllables, but any length is fine - it's up to you.

Stranger at the Gate

Who cares about the stranger at the gate? I do not know
The poor orphan, abandoned to his fate? I do not know

Where once I had the answers, now my mind is full of doubt
How do these certainties depreciate? I do not know

From noon till night our ardent looks would scandalize the town
Why is it that your eyes are filled with hate? I do not know

It used to be that man respected man for what he did
These days are we just numbers on the slate? I do not know

The wisdom of the years is something valued now by none
The butt of standing jokes, this balding pate? I do not know

The saqi¹ turns his back; how many skins will be required,
oh my love, this unholy thirst to sate? I do not know

Once upon a time Amir was counted a believer
To every question now I simply state, I do not know

Here's the article on Ghazals from WIKI:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghazal

You tell 'em Maureen!

On this blog we've had several shout-outs to Times columnists, but I'd like to give a special "Holla Back" to Maureen for her latest article. She spits the truth without hesitations and in a plain manner. Our paternalistic society is too quick to brush away such grave mistakes committed by men. While the woman is the Ho or the Slut with the loose morals. Riiiiiighhhhht.
Let's start rectifying things by applying male chauvinism to, well, males! Refraining from using such lingo altogether is the most ideal solution, but for now the over-zealous feminist in me finds the bashing from the likes of Dowd, quite ideal. One step at a time. You go Maureen!

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/10/opinion/10dowd.html?em

This part of her article is especially worth noting:

"For some reason, super-strivers have a need to sell what is secretly weakest about themselves, as if they yearn for unmasking. Edwards’s decency and concern for the weak in society — except for his own wife. Bill Clinton’s intellect and love of community — except for his stupidity and destructiveness about Monica. Bush the Younger’s jocular, I’m-in-charge self-confidence — except for turning over his presidency, as no president ever has, to his Veep. Eliot Spitzer’s crusade for truth, justice and the American way — except at home."

Muah-ha-ha-ha-HA

really? Really?!!! ::here's me resisting the urge to make a Russell Peters reference::

Minorities Often a Majority of the Population Under 20

By SAM ROBERTS
Published: August 6, 2008

Confirming the breadth of the nation’s diversity, census numbers show racial and ethnic minorities now account for 43 percent of Americans under 20.

Clockwork Blasphemy

Hello my little piece of laminated, fragile hope. Adorned with your garish array of bright, mismatched colors and symbols, I find you in the hands of many a passerby. Usually, in the callused, worn hands of whom I can only wish would cease to indulge in your false claims and exclamations. You shed layers only to reveal more sequentially meaningless characters and symbols. They promulgate thoughts of hopelessness, more roadblocks, more intrinsically “bad karma” or a divinely ordained dismal fate. Minimal as your contribution of sadness may be to the daily, bitter heaps of trials, tribulations, wounded bones and bleeding hearts, your fraction is just as sinister. Because it piles up. You know that your ashes, scattered in the wind, on the floor and out the window could congeal from many many crevices to form a slippery black mountain of despair with one shining, rarely attainable diamond at the crest.

Yet, they make a minor deity out of you still. You are concocted and perpetuated with a recipe that includes sacrificed earnings, blood, sweat and tears, mixed with greater hopes for their children, homelands, forgotten languages, birthrights, distant loved ones and the desire to retrieve whatever is left of their essential humanity. Like clockwork blasphemy they reach for you even if they reach for nothing else. On good days, maybe you are plucked and delivered alongside a pack of cigarettes that will replace meals and barely satiate hunger, perhaps a cheap cup of burned coffee, even an hours-old piece of bread and meat fresh off the glare of a heat lamp and hot metal rods. And in my own observation of your patrons, I see the ubiquitous crying out for hope, for mercy, for blessings from God – for a breath of relief, for once, at last, but probably – never.

"I'll see you at the debates, bitches" - Paris Hilton's Response to McCain's Ads

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/64ad536a6d

Mmhmm, find me an engineer like that!

Giju John, where you been all my life?!
http://www.sepiamutiny.com/sepia/archives/005321.html#more

"Te queremos y que Dios te bendiga"

This article about Luis Jimenez, a Guatemalan illegal immigrant who was deported back to his country by a private hospital is particularly representative of the dismal crossroads between the two heavy issues: Immigration and Health-care.
Check out the slide-show and also go back and see the video featured (alongwith the article of course). His reading of the letter towards the end, brought tears to my eyes and simultaneously provoked extreme anger. How do we rectify such things? What would be the just outcome in this case?
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/08/01/us/20080803DEPORT_index.html

I.E. Top Republicans are Racist.

Just look at their campaign strategy. Bob Herbert addresses it in this article.

Running While Black

By BOB HERBERT

Published: August 2, 2008

The racial fantasy factor in this presidential campaign is out of control.

We Oughta Know

1/2 Asian-American/Canadian kid - Justin Nozuka's video debuted on VH1 recently. I think the song "After Tonight" is notable. His sound is acoustic, somewhat pristine, soulful and surprisingly mature for an 18-year old. An excerpt from his Myspace page:

"This guitar slinging aficionado has the street smarts of an urban swinger and the heart-bending soul of a gospel preacher, and is adept at blending a dark, bluesy Americana vibe with warm, acoustic soul where bits of old folk music and flamenco tunes swirl in and out of earshot."

Apparently, he learned how to play guitar from his "Mexican friends in boarding school." Yes, these bios always sound kind of cheesy, but this one strikes a chord with me. He seems to have grown up with a variety of experiences and cultural influences. I like that. It's reflected in some of his songs/lyrics. Especially, the heart-breaking song "Save Him" about domestic abuse.

I might go see him in concert sometime in September because he's probably going to be even better live in an intimate venue. He's also getting good reviews on Amazon, iTunes, etc.

Check out his music at: http://www.myspace.com/justinnozuka

"After Tonight" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hgGkJez6pcM

"Save Him" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bu9M6Shva5w

What's in a name?

Nothing, yet everything. The wondrous amount of weight a single word can carry is baffling to me. I mean, on a plain level, it is just a concoction of random letters that happen to identify me. My character doesn't change with it. My actions aren't influenced by it. Then why the hell does it matter if the majority of people are not able to pronounce it. People suffer from much tragic things. I can live with Impossibly-Pronouncable-Name Syndrome, right? Wrong.

I deemed myself worthy of a prize when I was growing up, for having the most unique name. Give me the Hindi version, and I was confused for a bit, but I was fine. Give the Gujarati version and I was fine. Give me the Telugu version and I was fine. But no one warned me about how effed up the Angrezi version would be. I blame the Americans' incapability to EVER correctly pronounce my name for the low self-confidence and lack of self-esteem I experienced.
"Wait, how do you say that?" "Is it ouajdfoau?" HELL NAW!
I dreaded the day a substitute would proxy for my teachers. They would always compensate for their incompetence by claiming "ooh you have such a beautiful name", "wow, what a cool name."
Then why CAN'T you pronounce it?! I mean, I'm not asking you to build a robot and it is not exactly rocket science.

I thought that I was being too harsh on my life's spectators and that I should give them a break. "Sure," I said, "call me __" or "call me whatever you want." Big mistake. I should never have stooped so low. My judgment was too clouded by my desire to be accepted, be it at the cost of sacrificing the essence that had characterized my being for so long. You can't blame me either. I could physically feel and still feel people avoiding me, purposefully delaying their interaction with me, so that THEY don't suffer the embarassment of mispronouncing my name.

However, it is high time for me to say "THAT'S ENOUGH, GET IT RIGHT BITCH!" For far too long, I have tolerated this misery and I shall bear it nevermore, nevermore. So what if it takes you 50 tries until you learn my name, I will stand over you with a bludgeon and make sure you practice it those 5o times. I will not forego opportunities to establish rapport, make contacts and for lack of a better term, "network," because the audience is too close-minded and too self-absorbed to address me with the correct pronunciation. I don't know if I'm being too adamant and if my mission will be accomplished, but for now, I will take advantage of this glorious name of the Goddess Sita that my grandfather has lovingly bestowed upon me and fight for its honor.
Ohh Gogol Ganguli, you had it easy, my friend, you had it WAY too easy.

Ain't dat da truf!

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/30/opinion/30friedman.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

I heart Tom Friedman and heartily agree with his points. Democrats, please take note. Republicans, don't even bother.

Your Heart and Mine, full of warmth and sensibility...

It's kind of hard to follow a post as good as the last one. But I write as my stream-of-consciousness, lazy, tired ass permits me to, with less frequency sometimes, more frequently other times, in between loose sheets of scribbled notes of observations, inspiration, dismay, glorious amusement and contentment that I am trying to compile in one notebook and slowly onto this blog as I find them in my desk drawers, crunched-up in my purse and in a corner of my room. With that said, I continue with a theme extracted from the last, very graciously received post.

I've been reading a late 18th century Gothic novel entitled The Monk by Matthew Lewis. It's also described as late 18th century porn. Yes, I'm reading porn from the 18th century that was originally "savaged by critics for its supposed profanity and obscenity." I like that the book cover describes the novel as once having a "lurid reputation." I like the word lurid. I'm finding many parallels to Shakespeare's Measure for Measure (a play very near and dear to my heart - I've probably deconstructed and analyzed it much more than I would have preferred), which I expected to find, due to the novel's own reference to a particular quote from the play at the beginning of an introductory chapter. Regardless of its "profanity," I find the novel to be full of compelling themes and narratives thus far.

22 pages into the book, I found a passage that struck me as quite profoundly pertinent for my station in life and that of the last post's author, and many of us who are still in the process of developing our own maturity, identity, relationships and perceptions of the world around us. In response to a passionate declaration by a young girl, her admirer, Lorenzo, launches into this polemical speech:

"You are young, and just entering into life,' said he: 'your heart, new to the world, and full of warmth and sensibility, receives its first impressions with eagerness. Artless yourself, you suspect not others of deceit; and viewing the world through the medium of your own truth and innocence, you fancy all who surround you to deserve your confidence and esteem. What pity, that these gay visions must soon be dissipated! What pity, that you must soon discover the baseness of mankind, and guard against your fellow-creatures as against your foes!'

I agree with my unknown commentator. Why is it wrong to believe in a welcoming world? To see the world with some sort of optimism and hope. After all, that is why I do what I do, is it not? That is why we care and why we work so hard - striving for things that others, less-inclined to the "warmth and sensibility" of our hearts, would see as fruitless and frustrating endeavours. That's why I'm a realistic idealist. I accept this world, as Thornton Wilder would say (if I recall correctly), because it is both terrible and beautiful.

On Religion

Sitting in an uncomfortable chair. Trying to chant verses and hymns that I don't know. Mostly old people. Some very attentive. Some nodding off. The lighting of the place is conducive to dozing off. I love Vaishnava bhajans. Very melodic and classically in tune. Bhagwat Katha. Story of the life of Shri Krishna. In this Kaliyuga people strive to maintain ideals that Lord Krishna set forth in his exemplary life. Photos of God everywhere. My mind is roaming. Unable to focus. Om. Religion is justice. It is not just and fair that a distant relative is dying from leukemia meanwhile you feign devotion and chant hymns of lord's glory. Lord Vishnu reincarnated time and time over to rid this world of injustice. Adharma. So should we just sit around and wait for his rebirth. HIV/AIDS. Genocide. Children orphaned. Soldiers dying. Civilians dying. Hungry people STARVING. Many kinds of injustice. If God is really omnipresent, where is he now? You know, Batman has many possible applications . Gotham City= today's world. Do we need complete, irreparable demolition and renewal or should a caped crusader save us? Even Bruce Wayne was urged on by Rachel Dawes to fight for Justice rather than seek revenge.
What about this multiple path business? Why does one care what path one takes? I can believe in Goddess Shakti or all 3 million Gods or just the indestructible soul, Atman. What I will not believe in is this inherent injustice that some people claim God himselft created (read Caste, class distinctions etc) If one's claim to fame and glory is the creation of class distinctions that haunt civilizations for millions of years, than that is not the God I believe in.
I don't believe that devotees should worship a God clad in the most elaborate clothing worth Rs. 1 Crore. If that is the only thing that invokes piety then forgive me, they're not true Bhaktas. Krishna was just a simple cowherder whose sole adornment was a peacock feather. Lord Swaminarayan renounced the world and then gained the status of divinity. God Shiva is first and foremost an eternal ascetic who associates with everything that humans normally wouldn't: Ash, the Crescent Moon, Ghosts and Ghouls, Poison, Dreadlocks, Cold, deserted places etc
Call me a sinner. But I'm a fervent advocate of the message and the lifestyle he imparts and not the blind devotion that bhaktas practice. That 1 Crore Rupee outfit could have gone to some charity or some sort of research. Let's practice conscious devotion. Karma will catch up afterall.

NOT the GREAT HOPE in the Middle East...more of the same

Mideast Sees More of the Same if Obama Is Elected

"For what feels like forever, Israelis and their Arab neighbors have been hopelessly deadlocked on how to resolve the Palestinian crisis. But there is one point they may now agree on: If elected president, Senator Barack Obama will not fundamentally recalibrate America’s relationship with Israel, or the Arab world."

- NYT

Like, ohmygawd! I love my friend(s)

If this doesn't clarify things and help us find men now that criterion and qualities have been delineated...well then, shizz - we effin' screwed.

"Omg he's so effin hott!!! Ahh okay so I've decided, this is what my man will be like:
Jason Mraz's mentality and goofiness. The ideals of Batman & hot like batman too (Dark Knight influenced me. A LOT.I've decided he'll have to save my ass from a burning building at least once) Cute like Imran Khan. Can dance like Hrithik. Has a smile/appeal like Shahid. Has the charisma and charm of Shahrukh. Can serenade me like Shaan in Jab Se tere naina (or Jason Mraz). Can serenade me in Spanish like Alejandro Sanz or Juanes. Has the creativity of Junot Diaz. Looks like David Beckham (and talks like him) in some ways. Can paint like Goya. Can be an activist like Brian (haven't found another one yet.) Can be understanding like Vivek Oberoi in Saathiya. Can be badass and g-hetto like Abhishek Bacchan in Yuva. Ooh and I was watching Life in a metro and I've decided he should have a sense of humor/quirkiness like that of Irfan Khan's character mixed with Jason Mraz's."

And addendum:

"Ah madam, you must pardon my ranting from my previous post. However, my list is utterly lacking as I had utterly forgotten about the personas that Austen has created for us. Thus, accept this addendum to the aforementioned criterion:
1)He must be as suave and debonair as Mr. Darcy and must've been "tormented" by his desire for me for at least a 3 month duration.
2) Secondly, he must be as forthcoming and outright slick like Captain Wentworth (ahhh how i long for the days when i can say "I'm in receipt of your proposal and am inclined to accept it")
3) Thirdly, he must possess the "swagger" of Chris Brown and Justin Timb. (and if he can produce beats like Timbaland+Rahman, than that's an added bonus!)
Yours Truly,
Wistful wisher"

Semiotic Guerilla Warfare...wurd

Bitches, I'm gonna subvert your shit by OWNING it. And hence, I will own YOU! Down with consumerism, down with elitism, down with the man, down with Sex and the City.

You know what I'mma do? I'ma do dis:

• Wear that damn sundress with a big broch. Then you know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna wear a scarf over it.
• I look good in a vest. It ain't just for skinny-ass bitches with no boobs. I'm gonna wear that vest, I'mma wear it good and I'm gonna wear a dupatta and a hat with it too. And some desi- ass-lookin bangles. BOO YAH
• I'm gonna buy me a polo and pop that collar like its popcorn and relish your reaction to it like I relish the butter on popcorn...or better yet, ghee on some paratha. Mmm... So, come to think of it, I'm gonna wear that polo and I'm gonna wear some blingin costume jewelry with it. Not just some lame pearls. And probably a bindi too.
  
• Buy a bootleg off the street and paint this on it: I'd rather give my money to a hard working immigrant or a Chinese laborer than some European robot, exploitative designer with a pole up his ass. It all come from the same places anyway. China, South Asia, Latin America... NOT from Europe. Ya herrrd?
• Put "anything but effin' Radiohead" in the Music section of my F'book profile.
• Mmm...halters are sexaaay. I got me a halter dress. That's right, I got one. And now, I'm gonna wear a cardigan over it and maybe some leggings under it too. BOO YAH again.
  

More ideas?

Yes, we smile. And we love too.

Things I'm grateful for, things I'm tickled by and things I love. I'll keep adding as I'm reminded of them.

• I call my co-worker G.Willy or Gwilly, when I don't call him Will. His real name is George William Bartholomew and he is an absolute gem.
  
• Each of my coworkers are linked to someone famous. Ex. Dustin Hoffman, the guy who wrote and stars in "In the Heights," a famous jazz musician, some underwear model - you get the idea.
• Kat, my co-worker, also likes momos. (mmmm...) Hurray! We're going to make momos soon or go out to eat them.
  
• The chance to get to know people I would not get to know normally.
• My roommate. Her name is Ghazala. She's beautiful. 32. And makes amazing chai. Some beautiful man needs to come sweep her off her feet.
• The perks.
• Pro Bono cases that make you feel better about the job and the legal profession in general.
• Really nice associates and partners.
• My hair staying straight on certain days.
• 15-20 minute commute to work.
  
• Living in Manhattan.
  
• Internet, cable, etc.
  
• Time to check Gmail and F'book at work.
  
• My coworkers being on G-mail and G-chat all the time.
  
• Free lunches. Free food. FOOD.
• Kathi Rolls in Greenwich Village.
• Halal street carts.
• Halal restaurants.
• Eclectic oppulence.
• Crooked noses.
• Guys who wear hats.
• Guys who dress like Pharrell.
• People who use words like "lovely"
• Not having to ask to go somewhere.
  

Of a fickle madness

Sometimes, minor things can can turn an ordinary day into a really crappy, headache-y day, polluted by stanktastic moods and the desire to punch a punching bag (or someone's face) really really hard. Then all this negative energy and pent-up aggression really wears you out and you just find yourself at the bottom of some wet, dark well of pessimism and sadness. You start turning into some horribly dark and scaly creature who becomes the antithesis of everything you stand for. You growl and shove your way into the subway after work, fling your clothes about your room, lament about over-lamented grievances with the world, spend money in a ridiculous manner and eat one too many chocolate fudge brownies...or splurge on Pinkberry.
Then you realize... the trudge back from work and then the subway isn't an odyssey with witches and deathly traps around every corner. Maybe that epic pile of dirty laundry isn't so epic. Those brownies you consumed are now making you feel sick.

Maybe your roommate isn't being condescending when she says there are still ways in which you need to grow up. Because you do. You need to learn to forget. To become apathetic. Because, in the end, it's true that no matter how much you love someone unconditionally - if they don't respect you, if they use you, if they deliberately make you feel like crap - then he (or she) is not your friend, not worth your time OR your displeasure. And not really worth a whole blog entry either.

Damn. I need to grow up.

Next entry will be about what makes me happy. Yay!

Oh SNAP!

What the hellz were they thinking?

Oh, right, it's satire. Satire that just happens to provide ample opportunity for frivolous deconstruction or worse - misinterpretation. McCain said he understands why the Obama campaign would be upset. And then he was like, "KA-CHING!"

Thank you Matt and Garry (and Palbasha)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlfKdbWwruY

For the exposure. It's about time that Tagore and my bhasha got some recognition. (Reprezent Bengaleez, reprezent!) Not to mention that this is a well conceptualized video. I'm in love. Ok, I admit that it's a bit cheesy too. And I know that there's a ton of controversy/debate with respect to Matt's travel blog, but you can make whatever you want out of this video. This isn't about polemics, Western arrogance, etc. I like to dance and I like to dance like an idiot, so this I find this video to be an apt reflection of my world view.

Also, one of the best Sepia Mutiny posts of the year - in addition to Anna's Father's Day post.

And, here's the NYT article about it.

Adulation for Adolpho

"In Berlin, Germany, zoo officials show off Adolpho, a two-month-old, 3.3kg (7.3lb) giant anteater born in captivity." - BBC A Day in Pictures

Bestill my heart!

Oh, Adolpho! How I love thee. Thy countenance is sweeter than the sweetest rose. The innocent gaiety in thine eyes plucks at the strings of my heart. Forgive my dearth of words, I marvel at your tongue. How I would love to take thee to my bosom. And sqwoosh you.

What our asian mammas been sayin' all along...

Why we should have arranged marriages. Or not...I'm reading the article right now. Will write something more informed later, when I don't have to go to work the next day.

An Ideal Husband

By MAUREEN DOWD

Published: July 6, 2008

How to dodge mates who would maul your happiness.

Oh, Maureen. I've decided I like your articles even better than Paul and ole' Tommy-Tommy Friedman.

Ok, now that I've read it...

The best part of the article is the end:

“After I regale a group with this talk, the despairing cry goes up: ‘But you’ve eliminated everyone!’ Life is unfair.”

Thomas L. Friedman is off today." (haha)

Yes, priest - you've eliminated everyone. Now we leave it to our parents to find the right person.

An hour at the Gratitude Cafe (thank you wordsmith)

On the way back from work, my eyes always linger on the windows of a cafe a few blocks from my apartment. It is where sleekly-dressed up (or down) professionals and bohemian bourgeois spend a few hours socializing, perusing literature or importantly scrolling through screens on laptops while sipping on steaming cups of coffee or tea. Today, I decided, is the day that my humble body will step into its coffee-and-chocolate fragranced interior. I sit in a dimly lit corner table, attempting to look both self-assured and pensive, with an issue of the Economist to indicate my cognizance and intellectual maturity (this last item to withstand dubious glances which underestimate my adulthood). I came here to indulge in a warm cup of reassurance and the ambiance of a “fashionable crowd.” To me, more significant than their magazine-worthy aesthete is the confidence in their demeanor. I envy the self-worth and social stature that permeate the air around them like perfume blessing, emanating a shimmering and deliciously flickering glow of energy that unfailingly draws admiring glances even if for a fleeting moment.

I'm still waiting for a similarly warm, glowing wash blended with optimism to paint over my dull hues. I sit at the Gratitude Cafe, here in the most cosmopolitan American metropolis, feeling self-conscious, out-of-place and lowly. I run my finger delicately along the smoothly curving lines of the persimmon cup, having lost interest in its contents, allowing myself to fold deeper into the dark corner of the café - my presence engulfed and overshadowed by the humming of machines, voices and conversations that sound as smooth and rich as clotted creme. I resent my complexion, my lack of financial resources, my family’s problems, health issues, fatigue and the consequent anxiety which once again leads back to health and financial issues, circumscribing my life in a continuous cycle of YIELD or STOP signs. Like a self-inflicted, dull and pervasive ache, I also worry about the impending monotony of the mundane. Will there be anything else in my life besides work, sleep and the occasional shopping expedition? Is it wrong for me to want to be one of the fashionable crowd? To be professionally and personally successful enough to make myself and my parents proud?

Somehow, I knew this would end up happening if I came to NY. This indelible feeling of inferiority that threatens to blot out and smother my spirit – the spirit, the desire to sparkle like an illuminated crystal, casting the thousand colors of my passion, love and happiness onto the world as an expression of everything that is me.

Not only do I want to be optimistic about the two years ahead of me, but I also want to experience life to the fullest and be grateful for everything that I have been blessed with: a job (with a reasonable salary), amiable co-workers, a great roommate, a nice summer residence, 4 hour trip to DC and the friends who have been able to visit (will hopefully continue to visit). But an hour in the Gratitude Café hasn’t done anything for me. As I get ready to leave, I can’t help but remember Eliot’s lady, addressing the silent verses to myself.

“But what have I, but what have I, my friend,

To give you, what can you receive from me?

Only the friendship and the sympathy

Of one about to reach her journey’s end.

I shall sit here, serving tea to friends…”

I step into the world outside, the inundation of smoke, noise and smell of sweat issuing a slap of reality to my senses. I rebuke myself for my “carefully caught regrets” and self-possession, clutch my purse tightly and continue on my way home.

“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do now know

What life is, you who hold it in your hands”

shizzz...this is what liberal arts colleges figured out years ago

Yeah, that's right. Do some good in the world with what you learn.

It has begun...

We knew it would happen sooner or later. Apparently, Hejabis aren't very good for Obama's political image. This happened in FREAKIN' Detroit too. (Wow, did I learn a lot about demographics from the NCAA Tournament.) I've provided a link to the Politico article that first reported the incident. Here's the NYT article about the Obama campaign's efforts to tighten image control in anticipation of Republican slander.

First the AIPAC appearance, now this. (Sidenote: Mejin and I were discussing the AIPAC appearance a few days ago - she needs to share some of her views with us sometime.) I know that this is just the nature of politics and I've come up with enough justifications that trade a bit of "unpleasantness" for Obama's victory in the November, but I can't help but feel outraged and let-down by this latest incident. Obama's reactions to the speculation about his religion aren't really helping either. It seems that no politician will ever address the real issue of Islamophobia.

This makes me feel even more disgruntled for getting herded into that oh-so-very colorful podium crowd during the Obama rally at Davidson with the Governor of Kansas. I was literally pulled onto that platform because of my brown skin and, more importantly I think, my Davidson t-shirt. Not only did I look severely constipated in the pictures (it was blazing hot!), I was actually kind of troubled because I was wondering about the potential for this type of incident. And then I laughed my butt off a few days ago when I noticed the Kappa Alpha delegation right behind Obama's head in Minnesota. Ask me and I will explain if it is not evident why this should be funny.


Ah, well. And that's as much as I can rant before I return to packing for my big move to NY tomorrow. I hope someone else posts something soon. ;)

Where my daal and chawal at?

Really long NYT article on Mukesh Ambani entitled "Indian to the Core, and an Oligarch."

Though I'm always dubious about the ethics of really really rich people, I find his adherence to his own culture and values to be very heartening. Another sign that we're finally leaving the post-colonial framework and definition of "high class."

A few of my favorite excerpts:

His idea of entertainment is not ballet but Bollywood; he watches as many as three films a week at home in a private theater. “You need some amount of escapism in life,” he says. “Those two or three hours give you relief.”

...

He has a legendary appetite, but mostly for the food of the bustling Mumbai streets. He has been known to walk out of fancy restaurants in search of dosas, south Indian crepes sold by the roadside. And he carries those preferences with him when he travels.

One evening, when Mr. Ambani and a former Stanford classmate, Akhil Gupta, were in New York, they dined at Nobu, the popular Japanese restaurant. Mr. Ambani, a vegetarian, picked at the fare, finding it bland. At the end of the meal, Mr. Gupta recalls him saying: “That was nice. Now should we go have dinner?”

For Mr. Ambani, it’s all a matter of comfort food.

“Personally, I still have to eat my dal, roti, chaval,” he says, using the Hindi words for lentil soup, flatbread and rice. “I just have not developed those tastes.”

Yes, this is one oligarch I think I would have fun with.

Main pal do pal ka shayar hoon....

I found a translation! And couldn't resist...

'I am a poet only for a few moments, / My tale will be over in a few moments, / My laughter lasts only for a few moments, / My youth will end in a few moments. / I am a poet only for a few moments, / Many poets came and went before me / Some left sighing, / And some left singing, / Their story only lasted a few moments / I too will only live a few moments. / Tomorrow I will be taken from you, / But for today, I am yours. / I am a poet only for a few moments, / Tomorrow new tunes will arrive / like freshly bloomed flowers to be plucked. / There will be better storytellers than me, / and better listeners than you. / Tomorrow, someone might remember me... / But why should anyone remember me? / For my sake, why should this busy world / Waste its time? / I am a poet only for a few moments...'