"Baba-isms"

This is going to be a short blog post, covering the terms and phrases my dad uses during the course of conversation. For those of you who know my dad, you know that he has a unique way of getting his point across. So listed below are a few words or phrases that my dad uses in a way that no normal or sane person would use during a dialogue.

1)      PTS - Peak Teenager Syndrome

This is usually used to describe someone who is being cranky or grumpy.

Example: "Hmm...you are suffering from PTS"

 

2)      SMA - Stranger Mixing Abilities

This is usually used to specify whether you are an extrovert or introvert when it comes to meeting new people or making new friends.

Example: “You need to work on your SMA.”

 

3)      "Don't be in a frenzy"

This is usually used when your daughter starts dating a guy and you are nervous about the whole situation. You then use this phrase to warn her to not get in over her head.

 

4)      Negative Frenzy

This is usually used when someone is being very negative about the future or their current circumstances.

Ex. “Don’t be in a negative frenzy.”

 

5)      Madagascar Situation

This is used to describe an unacceptable, disastrous situation, with the term ‘disastrous’ used a bit loosely. For example, if you were to get a $400 traffic ticket for going 80 mph on a 55 mph zone, it could be described as a “Madagascar situation”.

 

6)      Pandemonium

If you go back to college and take your mom’s laptop by mistake, which forces your dad to drive 600 miles from New York to Pittsburgh to exchange laptops for his wife and daughter; this is a great example of “Pandemonium”.

 

7)      "Failures are the pillars of success"

This is usually used when you have unsuccessfully attempted to fix something, like the toilet flush and you repeatedly make it worse with each try. You can then use this phrase to convince yourself that it’s not worth hiring an expensive plumber and go back to “fixing” the toilet again.

 

8)      "Work is worship"

This is usually used to annoy the hell out of people. When you are sick of working and you just want to complain about the slave labor that is your job, you call your dad. If he replies “Work is worship” after every sentence you say, you hang up on him and question what your mom saw in him.

 

9)      "You are not going to be happy"

This is usually an understatement used to describe a situation that will make you really unhappy. For example, when my dad burnt several saucepans while trying to boil water, he called my mom and began with “You are not going to be happy”.

 

10)   De-bonding or under bonding

This is usually used to describe a situation when you have spent longer than a day with your family and it starts to become annoying. At this point, both father and child complain that too much family time has been spent together and a few months of “de-bonding” or “under bonding” are necessary.

 

11)   Black Spirit

This is used to describe the mood of a person whose anger is simmering right below the surface and may explode any minute. For your own safety, it is best to avoid any person while they are in a ‘black spirit’.

 

12)   Deep Breathing

When a person is nervous or anxious about something, this phrase is then used to annoy the fuck out of them. For instance, if you are nervous about your first job interview, your dad can acknowledge it and annoy you by saying, “You are doing a lot of deep breathing.”

 

13)   Musical Minded

This is a synonym for “distracted” or “absent-minded”. If you walk out of your apartment without your keys and get locked out because you were distracted while listening to music on your ipod, you are “musical minded”.

Creative Relief

My Engineering classes often drained me, and sometimes, the only courses that motivated and re-energized me were ones that had nothing to do with Engineering. I would take Shakespeare, Italian Cinema, Foreign Aid, International Affairs, and even The Study of Kosher and Halal Meat (yes, that was an actual course which primarily consisted of students eating meals cooked by the professor's wife).

Of all these, the one course that I absolutely loved was my Poetry class. I had a huge crush on my professor. He was an African American musician who would start narrating a poem in iambic pentameter, turn on some beats and start rapping the poem along with his own lyrics that he would make up on the spot, intertwining poetry and rap like the intricate weaves of a quilt. We were in awe of him and he was totally unaware of it.

I've included three poems that I had written in the course. I hope you won't find them too tedious to read.

The first poem was an assignment on writing an Elegy. I decided to write about one of my grandfathers who suffered from depression. He was not part of my immediate family but, as with any joint family with innumerable grandparents, cousins, et al, I was told he was family and that I should call him grandad. This was simply my perspective of him when I was a kid, so don't ( necessarily ) consider it an accurate representation of him.

My Other Grandfather

If you were to come back to that home;

Yellow smoke would stain the walls—
All because of him.

Those were the stairs he walked up

And walked down everyday at sunrise.
The ignorant would question the state of
His mind.

Uncle would title

Him the laziest man in town.
Uncle would make fun and ask
Him: “What was the hardest
Work you did today?”
He would smile and reply to Uncle,
“A lazy man does no hard work.”

You’d see

Him with his brown
Tobacco powder, shooting it up
His nose—coughing violently.
A lithe body lying limp,
Decaying on the bed.

His dark eyes would seek
Out your questioning gaze,
His mind observe your
Creased brow:
He would say, “Don’t frown near
Me. I was never heavenly.”

And then you’d leave him,

Your mind burning unhappily.

~~~~~~~ *~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~

I used to love writing Haikus. This one is about all the seasons of the (East Coast) year. You'll notice there are five stanzas even though there are only four seasons. I added an extra stanza for a season that I made up: that time of the year between winter and spring where you just can't take the harsh cold anymore and you're madly hoping for Spring to arrive. For me, that is my fifth season!

A Season of Haiku
 

Through sheltered windows

You see sultry morning sun
Beating down ill will.

Last splash of color

Before shedding of green leaves.
Leaves rustle to peace.

The heater is down

Midnight blue ice forms slowly
From last night’s iced tea.

Please pass winter blues;

Waiting for naked bare trees
To swell tender fruit. 

Sun slits through, letting

A flower bloom and a fruit
Retain spring juice again.

~~~~~~~ *~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~

Lastly, we had to write a Blues poem. I loved the overdramatic, melancholy nature of Blues. It forced even the most jaded people to become hopeless, lovelorn romantics. I remember going through several revisions of this poem and my professor would invariably come back disappointed in me because he felt I wasn't opening up enough. You can assume this was the last revision where he chose to give up on me.

Memory Lane
 

I keep strollin' down memory lane

And it drives me insane.
I stare 'cross lonely streets and remember
Burnin' desire on a blues winter night.
Now time’s gone and, baby, so have you.
I see the sun’s up and flowers've bloomed.
Ol' lady Winter’s left but my blues remain.
So I keep strollin' down memory lane
And it drives me insane.

Now, because my Blues poem isn't very good, I felt like I should leave you guys with one that is downright amazing.  By Langston Hughes, the below is an excerpt from his poem "The Weary Blues":

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
     I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
     He did a lazy sway . . .
     He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
     O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
     Sweet Blues!
 

Norway, So Far

A few weeks before I had to leave for Kongsberg, my manager and my client pulled me aside to a conference room. They both sat down with grim expressions and took turns  looking concerned and taking deep breaths.

“Shilpi,” my client began. “We’re worried about you.”

“What do you mean?” I replied, puzzled.

My manager and my client looked at each other and my manager said, “It’s minus 22 degrees in Kongsberg…I’m talking Celsius”.

Thanks to my American education, I had no idea what that meant. I just imagined the North Pole.

My client sighed and continued, “We are concerned because we haven’t seen you buy any thermals wear yet. And, Shilpi, you feel cold in Houston when it’s 65 degrees Fahrenheit out.”

So when I packed for Kongsberg, I wasn’t shy about taking my ski gear. I didn’t care if I was going to be the only retard wearing ski pants to work – I refused to be beat by cold weather.

I also wasn’t sure whether I would get the kinds of food I’m used to. My colleague, Anja, had assured me that there are grocery stores—“not as big as the ones in Houston, but they have some stuff,” she had said.

I decided to play it safe and take some stuff with me, just in case. My suitcase, by the end of it, contained all sorts of random crap that I wouldn’t use (at least I haven’t used it so far). Here were only some of the items I took along with me:

1)      A bag of basmati rice. I’m not kidding. I’m Bengali and I wasn’t taking a chance. If I went all the way there and found out there was no rice, I would have hung myself.

2)      Oatmeal

3)      Cholula hot sauce

4)      Crushed red pepper

5)      Spices (Cumin, red chilli powder, and five spice powder).

6)      Paper plates

7)      A sketch pad and a set of charcoal and pastels to sketch with. I guess I thought I’d become the next Dali while in Kongsberg.

Approaching Kongsberg via train

Kongsberg is a small ski town two hours from Oslo. The population is about the same as the number of guests invited to an average Indian wedding: 25,000 people. The ski slopes here are open until 9 pm every day, including weekdays. You know how we Americans come back from work and watch TV? Kongsbergians go skiing.

The ski slopes lit at night



They put me up in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. I’m not kidding when I say it’s compact. The rooms were a little bit like nested Russian dolls: you walk into the living room, and you’d find the kitchen in there too. You walk into the bathroom, and you’d find your laundry room. The person who gave me the quick tour of the place actually walked into the bathroom (while I stood outside because two people would not fit in that space), stepped over the toilet and pushed the shower curtain aside. Next to it sat a washing machine.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “This is all state-of-the-art. So if you shower next to this machine, you will not be electrocuted.”

“Thanks Rogen,” I replied, “Electrocution didn’t even cross my mind. Now I can shower in peace!”

After years of being put in hotels, I wasn’t used to fending for myself in an apartment. You have to constantly think about what’s running low and time your shopping accordingly. For instance, I went to the grocery store (which had every kind of cuisine imaginable, btw, including ten different brands of basmati rice. I can’t believe I carried an entire bag across the Atlantic.), and bought all this shit that I’d never use: like Thai Red Chilli paste, Pesto Sauce, Sabayon compote, etc.

An entire wall of "Hindi" spices can be found at the Kongsberg grocery store

Meanwhile, I forgot to buy: salt, paper towels, and toilet paper: three items essential to one’s wellbeing, comfort and happiness.

Only when I was running dangerously low on toilet paper, did I start looking for additional rolls in the apartment. It didn’t look like they had given me any extras, those cheap bastards. All stores are closed on Sunday so I had to wait until the week got started to go buy toilet paper. I was literally down to my last square. I remember looking at the square piece of tissue and wonder whether I should go pee or if I should wipe up the spill of raspberry jam on the kitchen counter. It was a difficult time.

It didn’t get any easier when I tried to cook for the first time. Because the place was so small, a tiny wisp of smoke would set off the fire alarm. I attempted to cook pasta that night. I had to boil the water while the stove was on its lowest setting. The exhaust fan was weak; I could've inhaled the vapors faster. So while I waited for the water to boil, I had to intermittently wave a tower near the fire alarm to make sure it wouldn’t go off.

After an hour of boiling both water and pasta, I took a piece of pasta out and tasted it. Fortunately, there’s a word for when you’ve fucked up and undercooked your pasta: the Italians call it ‘Al Dente’. It’s like calling anything burnt “char-grilled”. These magical words make inedible food edible. My pasta was so al dente, it made jolly ranchers seem like marshmallows.

The problem with the fire alarm was actually pretty easy to solve. The next time, I just opened the living room windows to make sure there is enough air ventilation. My second attempt at cooking pasta went a lot more smoothly. A day or two in, I learned how to take care of myself.

Second attempt at pasta

The only thing I was having trouble with was sleep. I couldn’t get over my jet lag. I would come back from work every day, groggy as hell, take a random nap from 6 pm to 8 pm, wake up, cook for myself, eat, and then fall asleep at 11 pm. I would wake up at 2 am fresh as a daisy. I would then watch episodes of Breaking Bad all night and fall back asleep at 6 am. The alarm would go off at 7 am and I’d wake up wanting to kill myself. This went on for an entire week.

On the weekend, I went into Oslo to hang out with a few friends. We went to some local breweries and a few hours into it, we were all pretty happy with ourselves. One of the guys (who was Swedish and claimed to have ‘yellow fever’), kept insisting we go to a karaoke bar in the hopes of him meeting Asian women. We obliged because he lived in this small ass town two hours from Oslo and rarely came into the city. As we walked into the karaoke bar, loud, high-pitched Thai songs screeched into our ears. The rest of the guys looked really pissed while our Swedish friend tried to strike up a conversation with the nearest Thai girl. Five minutes later, he came to me and said, “Well, I asked that girl a question, and she said nothing. Then I asked her girlfriends the same question, and none of them said anything. Finally, I asked the guy sitting next to them the same question, and he didn’t reply either.”

I laughed and told him that he needed a wingman. He took along one of his friends, and later that night, the wingman ended up with all the women. It was ironic, painful and hilarious to watch.

We had gone to Sushi for dinner and at the end of the meal, one of the guys realized the placement of his straw. We instantly became like a bunch of 12-year old boys and started cracking up.

When I returned home the next day, I waited until 10 pm. Then I crawled into bed and nestled into the sheets. When I opened my eyes next, I saw sunlight seeping in thru the window. I smiled: after eight sleepless days, I had finally slept through an entire night.

Keeping Your Sense of Humour

We have already accepted that time is an illusory concept (if you haven't, I'd get on that). We define a new year hoping to wash away all the things we fucked up the past year and start anew. The New Year starts and not even two months into it, you realize you've already fucked up. It's fine. Time is an illusion. Restart the New Year again. Reset. I declare Feb 5^th a new year! So happy new year to us!

As shit happens, it’s important to keep a sense of humor through it all. And be happy! Holy crap, we suck at being happy. I once saw a YouTube Uploader categorize a bunch of his music as “DepressiveMusic”. What the fuck? Why do we take such pleasure in being miserable?

And a word of advice, if you will allow it: don’t settle for less just because you feel alone and miserable. Funny story, but one of my guy friends likes to cuddle and misses doing that when he doesn’t have a girlfriend. We once started out a conversation with him saying, “Promise me you won’t make fun of me?”

And I replied, “OMG…I’ll try.”

He said: “Ok, well I just feel like cuddling with someone. Don’t tell me you don’t like sitting on somebody’s lap once in a while?”

Now, because he is a pretty big guy, I replied: “What I want to know is whose lap you’ve sat on…and did that person survive it?”

The point (apart from calling my friend fat) is that we are at our most vulnerable when we feel like this. This is when we start accepting the kind of love we don’t deserve.

And while we are still talking about men wanting to cuddle: I think we need to remove any gender stereotypes that are applicable to the female species. We are often accused of being needy, indecisive, insecure or over analytical. When a man does one or more of those things, he is labeled a ‘vagina’. Personally, being a dick is much worse than being a vagina. I don’t feel too strongly about this point, so I’m not going to harp on it. But seriously, stop saying shit like “You’re such a chick” as if it’s a bad thing.

 And to conclude my series of random thoughts: always try to find that one funny thing that will lighten up the entire day for you. Today, for example, my manager told me about the name of a Chinese restaurant in Jeffersonville, Indiana that would be a lawsuit waiting to happen, if it weren't owned by a cute, warm chinese family. The name could be borderline offensive, but it is also fucking hilarious. Can you guess what the name of the restaurant is?

Click the link below to find out. It made my day:

https://plus.google.com/114145135129886827495/about?gl=us&hl=en#114145135129886827495/about

 

We'll end with a Calvin and Hobbes strip because, as always, it captures the essence of life:

 

 

Turkey With a Married Couple!

When my friend Ashi called excitedly about a Friendly Planet deal to Turkey, I said I'm in! I had always wanted to go there. “Who else is going?” I asked.

“Oh, well definitely me and Krish. And you. And probably a couple of others. I’ll send an email out to everybody soon.”

“Awesome,” I said.

Later, I spoke to my friend Shilpa and she also thought it was an awesome idea so with this abundance of optimism and enthusiasm, I bought my ticket to Turkey. Soon after, everybody who had shown an interest backed out and I was left to travel Turkey with a married couple. Ashi kept repeatedly assuring me that it was okay that I tag along with them and even sleep in between them in the same bed (kidding). So I embarked on this journey and got my first taste of what married life would be like.

Here we go:

As we boarded the flight, I was already getting nervous about lifting my fairly heavy suitcase into the overhead. And then I realized Ashi’s husband, Krish was there – all six foot, four inches of him! I told Ashi that I’m glad he’s there so I wouldn’t have to worry about my bags and Ashi demurely replied that she lifts her own bags as a matter of principle. She then proceeded to lift her bag, which contained everything from a miniature straightener to a giant strainer, above her head, wobbled around with it for a minute or so, and then tossed it somewhere into the overhead. Screw feminism, I thought; that bitch can break her back but Krish is lifting my suitcase. Krish proceeded to lift my suitcase and slide it into the overhead bin as easily as an average person would insert a DVD into a DVD player.  I high-fived him and then asked him to describe to me in great detail what the inside of an overhead bin looked like because they were usually two feet above me and prevented me from looking (I mean reaaallly looking ) inside.

When we arrived in Istanbul, customs was a little more complicated than predicted. There was a ‘Passport Control’ line and a ‘Visa line’ and it wasn’t at all clear which one visitors would have to go to. Turns out whichever line you went to, you had to go to the other line. The sole purpose of standing in one line was to actually let you know that the other line is the right line to be standing in. We did this for an hour or so until we got a janitor to stamp our passports and enter Kusadasi.

The first day in Kusadasi, we just relaxed for the most part and took the local bus (which was a minivan) into town. While walking near the sea port, a local came up to us and offered to take a picture. Ashi, always skeptical of strangers, politely declined. Krish, however, is the exact opposite: he would give the shirt of his back if a person where to come up to him and be like “Yo dude, can I have the shirt off your back?”

In any case, as we were taking pictures, the man, who turned out to be a carpet exporter, offered to give us a ride to the Temple of Something-Something (I’m really bad with names), which was an hour’s drive away. He said we could borrow his friend’s car and carpool it all the way there. We said we would let him know later and headed off to lunch.

“Well, that was strange,” Ashi said. “He randomly offered us a drive? I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“I don’t know,” Krish replied, “Maybe we should do it.”

I walked around them like their ignored child.

“I don’t know,” Ashi said, “I’m skeptical. I didn’t like the way he touched my shoulder…I don’t like people touching me.”

At this point, I removed my arm from Ashi’s shoulder.

“He touched you too?” Krish replied surprised. “He pinched my butt!”

“He did not!”

“Just kidding. Okay fine, we don’t need to go.”

“Well, we can go if you want to.”

“No, we don’t need to. I’m okay with whatever.”

“I’m also okay with whatever…unless, we’re going with him. Then I’m not okay with whatever.”

At this point, I tried to drown myself hoping the water would kill me faster than this conversation was.

We ended up just chilling by the seaport until it was time to get back to the hotel for dinner. Dinner at this hotel was incredible. There were 15 different kinds of entrees, supplemented with a hundred different kinds of salads and then there was a separate room full of dessert. As Krish and I took our empty plates, we saw Ashi take off her clothes, run and dive headfirst into a five foot cake. Okay, so Ashi really likes her desserts.

The next day, we went to see the city of Ephesus. One aspect of traveling that I love is to see various types of architecture. Houses are usually built out of what’s in abundant supply at that location: in America, houses are made of wood because we have a lot of it; in some parts of Turkey, we saw houses made of stone because they had an abundance of stone. In Ephesus, they had a surplus of marble, so everything from the buildings to the roads (it was insane) were built out of marble. It was an incredible site and I think we ended up taking a thousand pictures in those few hours.

Ephesus in all its glory

 Later that evening, Ashi and I decided to go to a Turkish bath. It was only until we were in the locker room that we found out we had to get butt naked. The woman attendant asked us to remove our clothes and waited in front of us with a towel. Surprisingly, Ashi, the ever-conservative girl, shrugged her shoulders and started peeling her clothes off. Meanwhile, I kept asking for a bathroom. I wasn’t going to strip while that woman was staring at me in that creepy way. When I tried to run out to find a bathroom for the fifth time, the woman dragged me back and said she’ll step out so I can take my clothes off. The Turkish bath was inside a marble room with a marble platform in the middle where you lied down and the women poured millions of soap bubbles on you and massaged you. It hurt like a bitch.

Ashi and I walked out a few hours later bruised and battered. After a few minutes of silence, Ashi said: “Well…our friendship just went to a whole another level. I can’t say I’ve gotten naked and taken a bath with any of my other girlfriends.”

The next day, we went into a warehouse that sold various silk, woolen and cotton carpets. I must have looked like a real sucker because two salesmen cornered me and I quickly agreed to buy a carpet. I actually really like the carpet – it’s a beautiful blue carpet with intricate designs woven into it. We stayed there for about two hours and when it was time to leave, when there was literally five minutes left, Ashi asked Krish if she should buy a carpet. Scenting indecision, a swarm of salesmen surrounded them like sharks.

“Should I buy a carpet, Krish?”

“Sure, if you want Ashi.”

“I’m okay if you don’t want to buy.”

“No, I didn’t say I didn’t want to buy. Buy if you want. I’m okay with whatever.”

“I’m also okay with whatever.”

By this time, I had returned to the bus to make sure it didn’t leave without the two of them. As they trailed in a few minutes later, I heard Ashi say “Alright, next time we start the process of agonizing indecision a little earlier.”

At the carpet warehouse

 

We then took a bus to Çanakkale. Çanakkale was a seaport that was full of young, vibrant people and we loved the atmosphere of that city. That evening, we went to a bar and ordered our first round of Raki. None of us knew it tasted like licorice, a flavor we all hated with a passion. Ashi and I each ordered a small and Krish ordered an extra-large. After a sip, we all gagged and concentrated on eating the cheese and grapes placed in front of us. The waiters looked at us with sympathetic expressions; as if they had seen innumerable idiotic tourists do this to themselves time and again. Ashi and I barely managed to dent our drinks, but Krish had some sort of internal battle between his id and ego and determined his pride would be tainted if he were to not finish the drink. We saw him chug the glass of Raki while we got blue and nauseous from just watching him do that. Then we went to a dessert place and devoured a waffle with Nutella and chocolate sauce on it.

The next day we went to Troy. That place was a pile of rubble and, other than reading about the history surrounding it, it’s really not worth visiting in my opinion. However, what added to our trip were the random cats and dogs that walked through the streets as if owned by the general public. I bent down to pet a kitten and he closed his eyes in absolute bliss, like there wasn’t anywhere in the world he’d rather be than right there. It was both funny and adorable.



Haha...love the kitten's expression

 

Finally, we reached Istanbul and we stayed there for three days. I cannot tell you how much we loved Istanbul. That city is the perfect combination of beauty and fun; the ideal woman who seduces you the minute you encounter her.

In the evening, we took the local tram to Istiklal street and walked around, enjoying the bright lights streaming from the stores and the lively music blasting from the clubs. The clubs in Istiklal street set up speakers in front of their entrance so as you pass by the club, you can hear the upbeat music playing inside. It was great because it was like having a soundtrack added to your life as you walked the cobblestone streets.

The next day, we had the freedom to plan our own trips and we were psyched. We woke up super early in the morning (at 9 am) and started walking towards the old town where the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque reside. Halfway through, I realized I had left my iPhone back in the hotel room and we needed that so we could learn about each monument as we visited it. We ran all the way back to the hotel and then took a tram back to Old Town. It was now 11 am. Damn it.

Despite the late start to the day, we actually ended up doing a lot. We visited the Basilica Cistern, Topkapi Palace, a random mosque near Sultahnamhet, and Spice Market, which was shutting down as we entered it. Over there, Ashi spotted a jar of water that contained tiny leeches, used for medicinal purposes. We realized there were several jars all around us and were impressed with the variety of things one could find at the Spice Market.

Beautiful Istanbul

On the way back, I spotted an incredibly beautiful glass teapot-vase thingy that I had to buy. From the time I had spotted it to paying for it, a whole of five minutes had passed. At that point, Ashi saw a few beautiful decorative plates and asked Krish if she should buy one. The following conversation ensued:

 “Should I buy a decorative plate, Krish?”

“Sure, if you want Ashi.”

“I’m okay if you don’t want to buy.”

“No, I didn’t say I didn’t want to buy. Buy if you want. I’m okay with whatever.”

“I’m also okay with whatever.”

This went on for a half hour and, admittedly, she ended up getting a gorgeous decorative plate that will look great in her apartment.

We spent most of our evenings and nights in Istanbul strolling through the gorgeous city. Each landmark and monument was beautifully lit. It was a magical experience to walk through the ever-changing colors of the fountain with illuminated minarets in the distance, and vibrant lamps and souvenirs displayed in the stores around us.

The next day, we saw the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque. In the late afternoon, we went on a local cruise across the Bosphorus. And when I say ‘local’, I mean local! We were the only people who spoke English on the cruise. We went on the upper deck and were served some Turkish Appletea along with an English brochure that told us which palaces and buildings to keep an eye out for. The sea captain must have been a part-time DJ because he started blasting some amazing Turkish music. However, as the sun set, the weather started getting cold enough to require some serious cuddling to keep warm. I left Ashi and Krish to do just that while I went downstairs and ordered some more Appletea. And then I think I fell asleep on some random person’s lap.

In our last evening, Krish was going through some random, delayed jet lag and decided to nap in the hotel room while Ashi and I strolled through the streets to find a place for dessert. Turns out, without a six foot-four Krish hovering near us, we got a lot more attention from the men around us. We found a quaint café and sat outside. A handsome waiter came to take our order, smiling at us like he knew all our secrets. Later, another handsome waiter came out and we all just chatted for a bit. When they had given us our food and left, I leaned over to Ashi and giggled, “Holy crap they’re cute!”

Ashi looked up from her plate and said “Hmm? What? The kittens, right? Omg, they’re adorable…I’ve really started liking cats in this trip.”

Married people, I sighed.

All in all, it was a great trip, considering that 2/3^rd of us were married. I’m grateful that both Ashi and Krish tolerated me through the trip. And, through it all, we enjoyed how confused people got when they saw the three of us together.

“Are you his sister?”

“No, I’m his wife.”

“Oh, then you’re his sister?”

“No, she’s my friend’s wife.”

“Who’s your wife?”

“This one.”

“So then who is this?”

“We don’t know. Just kidding. She is my wife’s college friend.”

“But, really, we are more sisters than friends.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.”

“So, you’re not related to these two in any way?”

“Correct, I’m the college friend.”

“So wait….are all three of you siblings?”

In front of the Wishing Wall

 

Life of Pi

Well, here I am, sleepy but sleepless. So I’m sitting on my bed, wearing my winter coat on top of my pajamas because my blanket doesn’t keep my upper body warm and allow me to type on my laptop at the same time. They really should invent arm sleeves in comforters in order to address this epidemic (Yes, it’s an epidemic).

I watched the movie Life of Pi the other day and I scoured the interwebs for a review that does justice to the movie. I ended up disappointed; most of the reviews just gave a summary of the movie and the remaining handful gave a rating of ‘Great visual effects; but not too impressive.’

I disagreed: I found the movie poignant and the messages embedded within it powerful. Yes, there were times when the movie felt a little preachy, but you soon got over that and got lost in the story, itself. And as you found yourself stranded with a boy and a tiger in a boat with nothing but endless sea around you, you started to question your own morals, and your own strengths and weaknesses.

I had read the book earlier this year and it didn’t have the same impact – possibly because I have the attention span of a moth. I began reading the book with great enthusiasm for the first hundred pages, and then I started to fall asleep repeatedly after that. Finally, when I found out it was a fiction novel (the prologue misleads you into thinking it’s one of those based-on-a-true-story novels), I was pissed. I threw the book out the window hoping it hit someone on the head. When I saw the movie trailer, I was torn between paying money to watch a bad story and seeing pretty blue whales in 3d.

I succumbed and ending up watching the movie. At this point, if you haven’t seen the movie, you should stop reading because I’m going to over-analyze every aspect of the story. You should also stop reading this if you have a short attention span or if you are my mom. Excellent, now that I have no readers left, let us begin.

I loved Pi’s dad. He and I shared similar sentiments. As my favorite scene in the movie unfolded, when the family stood in front of the Ganges and set afloat diyas along with hundreds of other people, I felt a twinge of homesickness. I remembered my childhood when I had visited my great grandma in Allahabad and how the entire family had gone boating where the Ganga and Jamuna met in tumultuous conflict. Times were simpler back then and those childhood memories are replete with the kind of nostalgia an Instagram filter can only dream of.  And just as I was lulled into the old-world charm of comforting rituals and religion, Pi’s father snapped me out of it by saying “Don’t be fooled by the pretty lights.” It reminded me of how my own dad would declare “Religion is the opiate of the masses”, even as we walked through a crowded temple.

 Intermittently through the movie, the audience was reminded that they were going to find God. You can imagine my dry amusement at that line; I remember thinking: bring it on. Of course, none of the religious experiences that Pi went through made sense to me. Take for instance, when Pi went into that church and asked why God would choose to send his son into our imperfect world, and the answer given was: “Because He loves you.” That answer made me want to throw my seat at the theatre screen.

As the movie progressed, Pi experienced fantastical events that left you wondering if they were real or if he had found some shrooms in the survival kit and was now flying high. At the end of the movie, Pi offers a different explanation of the events that occurred – instead of boy and tiger, there were humans on the boat that ended up killing one another. The story is much darker, but the pessimists and realists of this world will hungrily grab onto the tassels of this sordid tale. On both accounts: be it the boy with the tiger or the boy with the humans, neither story can be proven. And either way, the end result of both stories is the same: a boy survives being stranded out at sea for 200 plus days.

And that’s when Pi poses us a question: if we had to choose, which story would we choose? Most of us would choose the story with the tiger because it is so magical. So it is with God, replies Pi – people choose to believe in God because it is the better story to tell.

I had to admit the analogy was pretty cool. And though it didn’t alter my own beliefs (fortunately, science can prove and disprove many things), it made me wonder if I were to be pushed to the limits that Pi was, would I have started believing in God?

Stephen Kelley, a film reviewer, puts it succinctly:

In time, as our hero’s life dwindles, his body and mind ravaged by starvation, the validity of his extraordinary account comes into question. The doubt jars – even if it has been whirring uncomfortably in the back of your mind. Why? Because this wouldn’t be a lie you watched; this would be a lie you lived.

Finally, let me end with the most poignant part of the movie for me: when Pi and Richard Parker, the tiger, finally reached shore. At this point, Pi and Richard Parker had been through hell and back together. Pi had saved Richard Parker and Richard Parker had also saved Pi. If this was a true Hindi movie, Pi and Richard Parker would have gotten married and an extravagant Bollywood dance number would ensue.

However, this was real life. And here’s where I truly appreciated the director’s commitment to staying true to the predatory nature of the tiger. Pi watches as Richard Parker strolls away, and he waits for the tiger to look back, just once, before he leaves for good. The tiger never does, and disappears forever. Pi is shattered – he can’t conceive how after being through so much together, the tiger could leave him with such indifference.

I was a mess at this point in the movie. As someone who doesn’t believe in God, I struggle often with the indifference of nature. Every major life event, be it good or bad, leaves this universe mostly unaffected: the sun still continues to rise in the east, unaware of our antics; and the oceans still churn out waves, oblivious to our pleasures and pain. With no God and the world so apathetic to your own life, who do you turn to for peace? I understood Pi’s pain: Richard Parker’s departure was quiet and unassuming, but he took with him Pi’s own peace and purpose.

But human beings, if anything, can adapt. If circumstances change, so does our purpose in life. We must adapt and we must continue, no matter what. For those who believe in God, may they find peace through Him. For those who don’t, may they find peace in themselves. And if you are ever left wondering whether your story has a happy ending or a sad one, just remember Pi’s last words in the movie:

That’s up to you to decide; it’s your story.

 

Growing Up in India

Do you know where's a great place to grow up? India. Not because that's where my roots are and all that crap, but because India allows you to grow up with a childlike wonder and appreciation that you don’t usually have growing up in a developed nation. Of course, with that argument, Somalia would be a kickass place to grow up in too, but let’s not get stuck in semantics.

The thing I love about India is it allows you to be a kid for as long as you want, but it also forces you to grow up for all the wrong reasons. For example, the first time you realize you need to buy a sports bra isn’t because you went running or played tennis; it's because you rode an auto. The ride is so rough and bumpy, your pelvis is just about powdered five minutes into it. The auto drivers invariably dye their hair in the same style as Rajni Kanth’s. To those who don’t know who he is: if you combined Chuck Norris, Obama, God, and Justin Beiber all into one, that’s who Rajni Kanth is to all of South India. Every time I travel back to India, the first thing I look forward to is getting a ride in an auto!

Here are a few other favorite childhood memories that make me forever grateful of growing up in a place like India:

Train Rides

Except for going to the bathroom (which makes me shudder to this day), I loved every aspect of getting on a train in India. Usually we were going cross-country and the journey would last a few days. I’d spend most of the journey looking out the window, waiting for a curve in the tracks so I could see the train in its entire length. I can’t explain why this was so fascinating, but I was always thrilled to see the huge length of the train extending out in front of me.

Then there was the food. The vendors would drop off trays of food wrapped in foil and I loved to peel the foil off and smell the idli and sambar. At night, when everybody grew silent and the train would make its quiet approach into a station, I would sit by the window and wait for the tea vendors to come. I loved how they would drone the word “Chaaaaaaaaaaaai” repeatedly, as if we didn’t quite hear it the first fifty times.

Diwali

When it comes to kids, Diwali puts Christmas to shame. Who wants presents when you can set things on fire? Every year, I would be asked if I remembered the story of Lord Ram and I would reply “Yeah, yeah mom. Forget Ram. Please go to the store and get me the following: crackers, rocket bombs, flower pots, chakras, and bottle bombs.”

I would pretty much get my hands on the kind of explosives that would make Al-Qaeda jealous. I even carried fake guns that had a trigger which slammed on a tiny strip of gun powder to make a loud bang and send out a wisp of smoke.

As a kid, Diwali is fun. As an adult, Diwali is a bunch of smoke and noise
that goes on all night long and is mad annoying. Fortunately, I was a kid.

 

Playing on the streets

With the advent of iphones and ipads, I think this phase has passed in India too. But I was fortunate enough to have a childhood where I could play out on the streets. We didn’t have playgrounds or parks that were close by, so we played cricket, biked, climbed trees and played tag at the same place that cars, trucks, buses and motorbikes drove across. It was chaos. You would run after a ball while almost getting run over by a car. The car driver would be yelling at you and shaking his fist only to almost run into a cow sleeping on the middle of the road.

Bathtubs

Bathtubs were a thing of luxury. As a kid, I had never seen an actual one, except for in movies with pretty white women soaking in a ridiculous amount of foam. We had a bucket that was big enough to fit about half my body. Mom would often walk into the bathroom and find me stuck in the bucket, with my arms and legs dangling out in an awkward tangle.

Movie Theatres

Watching movies in India is a whole different experience. The audience hoots and cheers at every scene where the hero is romancing the heroine, which in Indian movies is generally every ten seconds. People also throw coins, flowers, hats, and many other ridiculous things when the protagonist first comes on screen. When I watched Lagaan in India, which tells the story of how a little town won its freedom against the British by playing a game of Cricket, it was like watching a live game in a stadium. When Amir Khan hit the last ball out the field, the entire theatre stood up cheering and waving signs that said “Love you Amir!”

My first Casio

I was just about to turn ten when I saw it. A Casio keyboard that was barely a foot long. I knew I couldn’t live a minute without it and insisted on my mom buying it. Mom refused because it was too expensive. It makes us laugh today to think of the cost of that thing: at the time, it was twenty dollars. But a thousand rupees back then was a lot of money and not to be wasted on frivolous things such as musical instruments.

I tried to accept my fate as maturely as I could; I began by raging, crying and yelling for the first hour. When that didn’t work, I begged and pleaded. After another unsuccessful hour, I bribed. “I’ll make my own breakfast for the next year, mom.”

A few days later, I woke up to find that casio sitting on my bed. I can’t tell you how happy I was. That entire day was perfect: I played “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” repeatedly on my casio for hours until mom threatened to throw that thing out the window.

I still have this piece of shit...I love it!