Recently an email I received - one of the myriad emails that are forwarded everyday to my account - stood out starkly from the rest. Forwarded emails have become so the norm these days that most don’t get more than a cursory glance. What struck me about this particular one was not something unusual, but rather a particularly vile example of an attitude that I have been noticing with increasing frequency amongst my compatriots. I will quote the email in its entirety and then try to explain why it bothered me enough to want to write about it:
I couldn't' stop making this comparison..
inches of rain in new Orleans due to hurricane katrina... 18
inches of rain in mumbai (July 27th).... 37.1
population of new orleans... 484,674
population of mumbai.... 12,622,500
deaths in new orleans within 48 hours of katrina...100
deaths in mumbai within 48hours of rain.. 37
number of people to be evacuated in new orleans...entire city
number of people evacuated in mumbai...10,000
Cases of shooting and violence in new orleans...Countless
Cases of shooting and violence in mumbai.. NONE
Time taken for US army to reach new orleans... 48hours
Time taken for Indian army and navy to reach mumbai...12hours
status 48hours later...new orleans is still waiting for relief, army and electricity
Status 48hours later..mumbai is back on its feet and is business is as usual
USA...world's most developed nation
India...JUST A DEVELOPING NATION..oopss...did i get the last fact wrong??? Or am I just being proud of being an INDIAN
It is not possible to explain with mere words how shallow some people can be, and I will not even begin to attempt that here. When I first read this email, I immediately dismissed it as so much nonsense. But even a week later it kept tugging at my mind. I finally went back and reread it to understand the swirling cloud of anger and frustration it had managed to create in me. It disturbed me that someone could find pride in comparing death tolls of tragedies of such magnitude. In one unthinking swipe of the keyboard, the person brushed aside tens of thousands of people made homeless in the Mumbai rains. Entire slums were wiped out in 48 hours. The death toll was 1000 at the end of one week. In the US, entire cities along the coastline of two states have been completely wiped out, with countless people losing all their life's possessions. This is hardly a matter for a game of one-upmanship. Had Mumbai been in the same situation as New Orleans, the magnitude of the tragedy would have been too horrifying to comprehend. A category 4 hurricane with winds upto 250 kmph hitting a city of twelve million, with its average height below sea level and surrounded by high water on three sides ... I don't think I need to do the math. As it is, the severe rains caused floods the likes of which haven’t been seen in a long time. A city built out of reclaimed land with no drainage to speak of, built in an area lashed by severe monsoons every year. It was a tragedy waiting to happen, just like the New Orleans soupbowl. The rains exacerbated the wounds of the city. Old, dilapidated buildings which seemed to cling on to that last breath forever before collapsing have all but given up hope. There have been three collapses in the last month itself. As a gleaming new city rises in its place, the old city is dying and it’s taking its poor people with it. The rains were not good to Mumbai. It is sad to think someone feels the need to twist facts to somehow feel superior, and while in itself this attitude is not unusual, it is more frustrating because this email will be forwarded mechanically by every Indian to every other Indian in their contact list and most of them will read it and feel proud without really understanding what they are feeling proud about.
And therein lies the crux of the problem. It is this overwhelming need all Indians feel to be recognised as superior to all Westerners. After 150 years of foreign rule and the socialist mind-stifling policies of Nehru and Indira Gandhi, we are at last finding our place in this world, and this attitude keeps dragging us back. As long as we feel a need to put someone else down to prove our worth, we are lying to the world and we are lying to ourselves. We are trying to win a battle that exists only in our minds. This generation - my generation - is the first one to break the shackles of our self-imposed inferiority complex and take our country through those first tentative steps towards the greatness that all Indians like to see in their motherland. But we don't need false victories in non-existent battles to do that. Today we have Bangalore, Hyderabad and Pune as arguably the IT capitals of the world. We are self sustaining in almost all grain and food products. In 60 years we have gone from a country of farmers to a nuclear power. For the first time in 200 years any young Indian has not only the ability, but also the self-belief to stand up to any other person in the world and be as intelligent, articulate, productive and creative as them. There is no need for us to shrilly proclaim our superiority, because we are not superior - we are equal - and our deeds will do all the proclaiming for us. And while it's one thing to point up to the sky and see India Rising, one should always cast their eyes towards their feet and see the 500 million people whose backs one is grinding into the ground to feel as tall as the rest of the world.
Be proud to be an Indian - I am. But don't have delusions of grandeur. No, India is not a developed nation. But it is in our hands to take her there - and we won’t let her down.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Ah, Calvin.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Musicology
At the behest of a certain single celled organism floating about in Philly, I am writing a post about music. Now being asked to write a post about music by Katz is akin to being asked to write a post about universal love by Adolf Hitler - it just doesn't happen. Only it just has. While it gives a warm, fuzzy feeling to know that a person who previously could not distinguish a nail scratching a blackboard from Mozart's fourth symphony has come into the fold, it makes me wonder what VS, I and AN were doing wrong that we could not convert her despite two years worth of efforts.
Nonetheless, I can still say with some pride that I had at least some small part to play in the musical growth of my two erstwhile roommates, Messrs AN and RJ. To be fair though RJ is a walking encyclopedia of Hindi music and was in great part responsible for increasing the repertoire of Hindi songs I listen to. AN, as is his wont, has far surpassed me in the intensity he shows in his approach towards music and guitaring.
I pondered for a while what a blog on music should really be about. I could have listed the songs and artists I like, or am listening to right now, but these things are very transitory. What you like is very much about the person you are at that particular point in time. Fifteen years ago I couldn't go an entire week without listening to Wham!. Now I cannot listen to more than a couple of Wham! songs in a row. Ten years ago I spent a lot of money on The Wall by Pink Floyd. I threw away the cassettes in a week because the songs were trash. Now I can't go an entire week without listening to Pink Floyd.
Tastes might be transitory, but good music lasts forever. I might not listen to Wham! anymore, but I hum along whenever I hear one of their songs on the radio. I might not understand Indian classical music, but I never cease to be amazed by the complexity of the compositions or the virtuosity of the masters. But just the fact that a piece of art is intrinsically good does not mean that one has to like it or that it should matter enough to every person to make them emotional about it. For that to happen one must be attached to the music on a personal level and when that happens it doesn't matter whether that piece of music or song is perceived as critically good or not, only that you feel a special attachment to it for some reason.
Music, in one form or another, has probably spanned the entire existance of the human race. We carried it out from Africa, where our ape ancestors were probably beating on earthen drums before they could even speak to each other. Cavemen probably smoked psychotropic weed and gathered round in circles uttering rhythmic chants in some long forgotten language. Then they went and drew animals on the walls - hey, you can expect only so much from cavemen. Music strikes a chord in humans (no pun intended) and the power it has to make one feel happy, sad, angry, inspired or a myriad of other emotions is what eventually enables us to connect to it.
Music has the power to enhance moods, but it also has the power to bring back old memories. It reminds me of the time when a bunch of us gathered in a friends apartment and belted out Hotel California till we were hoarse (yes even the guitar riffs). It is something I have done alone innumerable times, but that memory has still stuck with me. Or the song that we played in our bus the entire class trip in 10th grade. That one song can trigger memories of that time in my life. Or the time when, for months on end, each time we went out in Dev's car it was a rule to have Dil Se playing first up (followed by the soundtrack for I Know What You Did Last Summer - my excuse is that we were young and didn't know any better).
But, the most surreal effect music has on me is when I just put on a CD on and get completely lost in the music. Who needs dope when I have music. Well, dope with music would be even better but I can't advocate anything illegal on the blog, can I?
So come along folks, turn up the volume and take a ride out into your inner world. Strap on those seat-belts - this roller coaster never ends.
Nonetheless, I can still say with some pride that I had at least some small part to play in the musical growth of my two erstwhile roommates, Messrs AN and RJ. To be fair though RJ is a walking encyclopedia of Hindi music and was in great part responsible for increasing the repertoire of Hindi songs I listen to. AN, as is his wont, has far surpassed me in the intensity he shows in his approach towards music and guitaring.
I pondered for a while what a blog on music should really be about. I could have listed the songs and artists I like, or am listening to right now, but these things are very transitory. What you like is very much about the person you are at that particular point in time. Fifteen years ago I couldn't go an entire week without listening to Wham!. Now I cannot listen to more than a couple of Wham! songs in a row. Ten years ago I spent a lot of money on The Wall by Pink Floyd. I threw away the cassettes in a week because the songs were trash. Now I can't go an entire week without listening to Pink Floyd.
Tastes might be transitory, but good music lasts forever. I might not listen to Wham! anymore, but I hum along whenever I hear one of their songs on the radio. I might not understand Indian classical music, but I never cease to be amazed by the complexity of the compositions or the virtuosity of the masters. But just the fact that a piece of art is intrinsically good does not mean that one has to like it or that it should matter enough to every person to make them emotional about it. For that to happen one must be attached to the music on a personal level and when that happens it doesn't matter whether that piece of music or song is perceived as critically good or not, only that you feel a special attachment to it for some reason.
Music, in one form or another, has probably spanned the entire existance of the human race. We carried it out from Africa, where our ape ancestors were probably beating on earthen drums before they could even speak to each other. Cavemen probably smoked psychotropic weed and gathered round in circles uttering rhythmic chants in some long forgotten language. Then they went and drew animals on the walls - hey, you can expect only so much from cavemen. Music strikes a chord in humans (no pun intended) and the power it has to make one feel happy, sad, angry, inspired or a myriad of other emotions is what eventually enables us to connect to it.
Music has the power to enhance moods, but it also has the power to bring back old memories. It reminds me of the time when a bunch of us gathered in a friends apartment and belted out Hotel California till we were hoarse (yes even the guitar riffs). It is something I have done alone innumerable times, but that memory has still stuck with me. Or the song that we played in our bus the entire class trip in 10th grade. That one song can trigger memories of that time in my life. Or the time when, for months on end, each time we went out in Dev's car it was a rule to have Dil Se playing first up (followed by the soundtrack for I Know What You Did Last Summer - my excuse is that we were young and didn't know any better).
But, the most surreal effect music has on me is when I just put on a CD on and get completely lost in the music. Who needs dope when I have music. Well, dope with music would be even better but I can't advocate anything illegal on the blog, can I?
So come along folks, turn up the volume and take a ride out into your inner world. Strap on those seat-belts - this roller coaster never ends.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Strange days in strange lands
It is 18 July 2001 and the moment that I have been anticipating for two years is finally at hand. I am about to step out of the plane and enter the land of the free and the home of the brave. I and my friend A.R. are greeted by a sunny summer afternoon at Boston's Logan airport. Customs are a breeze and it's onto the main lobby where after much juggling of quarters, dimes and nickels we finally manage to put a call through to another friend V. who is coming to pick us up. I watch sadly as the evil contarption swallows my quarters - 12 whole Indian rupees for each one, and demands even more every few minutes. I console myself with the knowledge that all the real cash is safely tucked away inside my shirt in a specially made wallet hanging from my neck. I pat it once just to be sure.
The call is finally done and it's another four hour wait till V. finishes his work-day and makes his way through the evening traffic to the airport. So we sit there with two massive suitcases for each person, marvelling at the fact that there is nothing to really marvel at.
Until I spot a vending machine. Excited that I have at last spotted something I have only seen in movies before, I entrust A.R. with taking care of my bags and jaunt over to
the vending machines to see what treasures I can lay my hands on. After a few minutes of careful perusal I convince myself that it isn't worth parting with a
dollar to have candy or soda just because I want to see a vending machine work.
I wander back to the seat, a bit miffed that there is no entertainment on offer in the land that made Hollywood. As I explain my disappointment to A.R., he sagely points out that expecting a broadway show or a strip club at the airport is a bit unreasonable. I don't see what's so unreasonable about expecting to see hot chicks in skimpy clothes at the very least.
V. manages to get out of work early and we are pleasently surprised to see him making his way toward us. I get the distinct impression from his expression that he thinks we are two plump virgins primed for ritual slaughter. I shake the gruesome image out of my head and engage in the entirely more enjoyable ritual of hugging and back-slapping. I understand his expression though. This is his chance of teaching the humble country bumpkins how to survive in the wild wild west.
As we make our way to the parking lot, he starts gloating about his new car. "It's a VW Passat," he says pridefully. "VW Rocks!!," he adds just in case. I nod my head appreciatively. I have never heard of the car. Now if it was an Audi or a BMW...
We load our stuff into the car, filling the trunk and most of the back seat in the process. "VW Rocks!!", we are assured. After a brief struggle which I win due to my size advantage, I occupy the front seat and A.R. is relegated to the cramped rear quarters. We embark on an hour long journey to Worcester. The first thing both of us notice as we get onto the highway is the number of cars. They just go on and on. And most of them are huge. "Why do they need such huge cars anyway," I venture. "They're Americans," says V. with a knowledgeble nod of the head. It is my first exposure to the idea that every unexplicable aspect of this country can be rationalised very easily by those two words. We shrug it off and concentrate on counting how many Porshes and BMWs we can see. Meanwhile V. is going on and on about how he managed to buy the car only for 22000 dollars when it is normally priced at 26000 dollars. My stomach
does a double flip just thinking about those numbers and I pat my wallet for consolation. It conatins 100 dollars in tens and twentys - at least I am not completely broke.
We are duly impressed with the glimpses we get of our first western city, but soon we arrive in a stark little town an hour from Boston. We stop at a small building on a small street where V. wants to introduce us to some of his mates. We park the car and get out. I push the door a bit harder than I should have and it makes a noise louder than it should have. "VW Rocks!!", my friend says sternly. I take that as a warning and follow him into the building. Both I and A.R. are a bit disturbed by the state of the living quarters we find ourselves in, if that is truly what it can be called. The stairs are creaking and there are gaps in the floorboards. The paint, if existing, is peeling. Not only does it seem as if the place has never been cleaned, but it seems as if it was built from the grimy discards of an old house. We gingerly step into a passageway, like two not-so-intrepid explorers. V. is further ahead, skipping merrily as if in a
park. Apparently his friend isn't home, but we go ahead and peek into his room anyway. The room contains one lamp and a beat up old mattress with a few clothes lying around. Otherwise it is in no better condition than what has gone before it. A.R. looks at V. and puts into words what I have been thinking, "Why is he living like this?"
"He's a student. That's how students live"
"What? Isn't this the richest country in the world? Where did the high standard of living go?"
"It didn't go to the students. I lived like this when I was a student too. Don't worry, I have a better place now." He opens his mouth to add something else suspiciously like "VW Rocks," but thinks better of it and stays quiet.
"Fat lot of good that does for us. You mean to say we're going to live like rats for the next two years?"
A shrug is our only answer. I begin to wonder if coming here had been such a good idea. We gingerly make our way out. "Let's eat Chinese. There's a place a bit down the street," says V. Just as we are about to head to the restaurant, an SUV passing us on the road breaks suddenly. A lady in a small car behind it is too slow to react and crashes into the SUV. The SUV doesn't even budge. The driver of the SUV gets out and walks to the back. I glance around furtively hoping there are no crazy people looking to pick a fight with one of the drivers, but notice that everyone's going about their business without too much of a pause. The driver of the SUV gets back in his car and lumbers to the side of the road. There's not even a scratch on the back.
The smaller car also limps to the side, but its front end is fairly beaten up and crumpled. The lady behind the wheel is still staring out her windshield in a daze. Suddenly three cop cars and an ambulance come wailing down the street.
"Why did they call the entire cavalry? Do they think it's a bank robbery?" I whisper to A.R. I don't know why I am whispering.
"Wait here, I'll go tell the cops what I saw," says V.
"Talk to the cops??? Why would you do that? Whoever talks to cops anyway?"
"Don't worry, it's not like India."
So he walks over to the cop cars and A.R. and I stare at the lady in the small car. She's still in there in a daze, refusing to get out. "She's a goner," he says cynically. I nod just as cynically. Meanwhile V. is back from his little talk and is beaming with the satisfaction of having been a good citizen.
"You are not a citizen though," I say emphatically and they both look at me as if I am not all there.
"The cops seem nice," A.R. ventures, ignoring my outburst."Yeah, they're quite polite actually. They treat you with respect."
Both A.R. and I are amazed to know that the police don't go about acting as if it was their God given right to bully everyone. By and by we saunter off to the Chinese restaurant for dinner. After dinner we make our way in the fading light to V.'s house. He is right, it is a better place and we are satisfied that we'll be spending the next 15 days in comfort. We decide to take showers before hitting the sack and V. makes us follow him into the bathroom so he can explain proper bathroom etiquette.
"Okay, most importantly, the shower curtain goes on the inside of the tub and NOT the outside." He proceeds to give a demonstration with the flair of a magician. I resist an urge to applaud.
"Why is the 'shower' curtain in the tub?" I venture.
"Because the shower is in the tub."
We stare at him quizzically, waiting expectantly for him to start laughing. But instead he moves the shower curtain and points to the shower-head.
"You have your shower in the tub," A.R. says matter-of-factly.
"Everyone does. That's the way it is."
"You mean everyone in this country showers in the...bath tub?"
"They're Americans."
We begin to realise the power of this term and its immense capacity of reassuring panicky minds. Glancing around I suddenly notice a plethora of sundry deodorants and body sprays. Giddy with delight, I immediately begin to assign each one a day of the week. V. realises from my expression what I must be thinking and preempts me.
"You can't use this, this, this, this.." and he might have continued but I interrupt to ask him why.
"Its my housemate's stuff."
"So?"
"We just don't do that here."
"How un-Indian," I remark and decide to use them anyway.
A nice warm shower and a change of clothes later, we decide that its time for beer. I figure this is as good a time as any to chuck out my Mom's rules about not drinking alcohol. V. hands us a bottle of Corona each. I raise the bottle to my mouth in anticipation.
"Wait! Don't drink it," says V.
"What else do you expect me to do? Take a bath in it?" It's been a long journey.
"No, no. We need to add lime."
"I think he has handed us iced tea," I grumble as he proceeds to cut up a lime. I am miffed that he didn't do it before but wait obediently for my piece. I get even angrier that he didn't cut smaller pieces as I try to stuff the overlarge piece into my bottle. After a few attempts I manage to squeeze it in, but the beer is riled enough by now that it immediately squirts in my face when I remove my thumb.
I refuse to participate in the ensuing hilarity and instead take a swig of my beer. Disticntly unimpressed, I decide that alcohol is not really my cup of iced tea. We chat about old times and new times and slowly move to the bedroom, where the conversation comes to a sudden halt when we realise all at the same time that one of us is going to have to occupy the mattress on the floor. A scuffle breaks out but ends abruptly as V. sends A.R. tumbling into me and squats on the bed. I take advantage of A.R.'s confusion and jump onto the bed myself. A.R. grumpily weaves towards the mattress.
"Just don't tell any Americans you shared a bed with your friend."
"Why what's the big deal? It's big enough for the two of us. It's not like we are snuggling or anything. Hell, its big enough for all three of us even."
"Exactly," we hear from somewhere below us, but A.R. is too tired to put up an argument.
"Trust me. You'll know after a few weeks here that no bed's big enough for two guys to share."
So saying he turns away from me and I turn away from him like estranged spouses.
The summer night in Boston is getting too cool for me and I pull the comforter lying at my feet.
My last thought as I drift off to sleep is, "VW Rocks..."
The call is finally done and it's another four hour wait till V. finishes his work-day and makes his way through the evening traffic to the airport. So we sit there with two massive suitcases for each person, marvelling at the fact that there is nothing to really marvel at.
Until I spot a vending machine. Excited that I have at last spotted something I have only seen in movies before, I entrust A.R. with taking care of my bags and jaunt over to
the vending machines to see what treasures I can lay my hands on. After a few minutes of careful perusal I convince myself that it isn't worth parting with a
dollar to have candy or soda just because I want to see a vending machine work.
I wander back to the seat, a bit miffed that there is no entertainment on offer in the land that made Hollywood. As I explain my disappointment to A.R., he sagely points out that expecting a broadway show or a strip club at the airport is a bit unreasonable. I don't see what's so unreasonable about expecting to see hot chicks in skimpy clothes at the very least.
V. manages to get out of work early and we are pleasently surprised to see him making his way toward us. I get the distinct impression from his expression that he thinks we are two plump virgins primed for ritual slaughter. I shake the gruesome image out of my head and engage in the entirely more enjoyable ritual of hugging and back-slapping. I understand his expression though. This is his chance of teaching the humble country bumpkins how to survive in the wild wild west.
As we make our way to the parking lot, he starts gloating about his new car. "It's a VW Passat," he says pridefully. "VW Rocks!!," he adds just in case. I nod my head appreciatively. I have never heard of the car. Now if it was an Audi or a BMW...
We load our stuff into the car, filling the trunk and most of the back seat in the process. "VW Rocks!!", we are assured. After a brief struggle which I win due to my size advantage, I occupy the front seat and A.R. is relegated to the cramped rear quarters. We embark on an hour long journey to Worcester. The first thing both of us notice as we get onto the highway is the number of cars. They just go on and on. And most of them are huge. "Why do they need such huge cars anyway," I venture. "They're Americans," says V. with a knowledgeble nod of the head. It is my first exposure to the idea that every unexplicable aspect of this country can be rationalised very easily by those two words. We shrug it off and concentrate on counting how many Porshes and BMWs we can see. Meanwhile V. is going on and on about how he managed to buy the car only for 22000 dollars when it is normally priced at 26000 dollars. My stomach
does a double flip just thinking about those numbers and I pat my wallet for consolation. It conatins 100 dollars in tens and twentys - at least I am not completely broke.
We are duly impressed with the glimpses we get of our first western city, but soon we arrive in a stark little town an hour from Boston. We stop at a small building on a small street where V. wants to introduce us to some of his mates. We park the car and get out. I push the door a bit harder than I should have and it makes a noise louder than it should have. "VW Rocks!!", my friend says sternly. I take that as a warning and follow him into the building. Both I and A.R. are a bit disturbed by the state of the living quarters we find ourselves in, if that is truly what it can be called. The stairs are creaking and there are gaps in the floorboards. The paint, if existing, is peeling. Not only does it seem as if the place has never been cleaned, but it seems as if it was built from the grimy discards of an old house. We gingerly step into a passageway, like two not-so-intrepid explorers. V. is further ahead, skipping merrily as if in a
park. Apparently his friend isn't home, but we go ahead and peek into his room anyway. The room contains one lamp and a beat up old mattress with a few clothes lying around. Otherwise it is in no better condition than what has gone before it. A.R. looks at V. and puts into words what I have been thinking, "Why is he living like this?"
"He's a student. That's how students live"
"What? Isn't this the richest country in the world? Where did the high standard of living go?"
"It didn't go to the students. I lived like this when I was a student too. Don't worry, I have a better place now." He opens his mouth to add something else suspiciously like "VW Rocks," but thinks better of it and stays quiet.
"Fat lot of good that does for us. You mean to say we're going to live like rats for the next two years?"
A shrug is our only answer. I begin to wonder if coming here had been such a good idea. We gingerly make our way out. "Let's eat Chinese. There's a place a bit down the street," says V. Just as we are about to head to the restaurant, an SUV passing us on the road breaks suddenly. A lady in a small car behind it is too slow to react and crashes into the SUV. The SUV doesn't even budge. The driver of the SUV gets out and walks to the back. I glance around furtively hoping there are no crazy people looking to pick a fight with one of the drivers, but notice that everyone's going about their business without too much of a pause. The driver of the SUV gets back in his car and lumbers to the side of the road. There's not even a scratch on the back.
The smaller car also limps to the side, but its front end is fairly beaten up and crumpled. The lady behind the wheel is still staring out her windshield in a daze. Suddenly three cop cars and an ambulance come wailing down the street.
"Why did they call the entire cavalry? Do they think it's a bank robbery?" I whisper to A.R. I don't know why I am whispering.
"Wait here, I'll go tell the cops what I saw," says V.
"Talk to the cops??? Why would you do that? Whoever talks to cops anyway?"
"Don't worry, it's not like India."
So he walks over to the cop cars and A.R. and I stare at the lady in the small car. She's still in there in a daze, refusing to get out. "She's a goner," he says cynically. I nod just as cynically. Meanwhile V. is back from his little talk and is beaming with the satisfaction of having been a good citizen.
"You are not a citizen though," I say emphatically and they both look at me as if I am not all there.
"The cops seem nice," A.R. ventures, ignoring my outburst."Yeah, they're quite polite actually. They treat you with respect."
Both A.R. and I are amazed to know that the police don't go about acting as if it was their God given right to bully everyone. By and by we saunter off to the Chinese restaurant for dinner. After dinner we make our way in the fading light to V.'s house. He is right, it is a better place and we are satisfied that we'll be spending the next 15 days in comfort. We decide to take showers before hitting the sack and V. makes us follow him into the bathroom so he can explain proper bathroom etiquette.
"Okay, most importantly, the shower curtain goes on the inside of the tub and NOT the outside." He proceeds to give a demonstration with the flair of a magician. I resist an urge to applaud.
"Why is the 'shower' curtain in the tub?" I venture.
"Because the shower is in the tub."
We stare at him quizzically, waiting expectantly for him to start laughing. But instead he moves the shower curtain and points to the shower-head.
"You have your shower in the tub," A.R. says matter-of-factly.
"Everyone does. That's the way it is."
"You mean everyone in this country showers in the...bath tub?"
"They're Americans."
We begin to realise the power of this term and its immense capacity of reassuring panicky minds. Glancing around I suddenly notice a plethora of sundry deodorants and body sprays. Giddy with delight, I immediately begin to assign each one a day of the week. V. realises from my expression what I must be thinking and preempts me.
"You can't use this, this, this, this.." and he might have continued but I interrupt to ask him why.
"Its my housemate's stuff."
"So?"
"We just don't do that here."
"How un-Indian," I remark and decide to use them anyway.
A nice warm shower and a change of clothes later, we decide that its time for beer. I figure this is as good a time as any to chuck out my Mom's rules about not drinking alcohol. V. hands us a bottle of Corona each. I raise the bottle to my mouth in anticipation.
"Wait! Don't drink it," says V.
"What else do you expect me to do? Take a bath in it?" It's been a long journey.
"No, no. We need to add lime."
"I think he has handed us iced tea," I grumble as he proceeds to cut up a lime. I am miffed that he didn't do it before but wait obediently for my piece. I get even angrier that he didn't cut smaller pieces as I try to stuff the overlarge piece into my bottle. After a few attempts I manage to squeeze it in, but the beer is riled enough by now that it immediately squirts in my face when I remove my thumb.
I refuse to participate in the ensuing hilarity and instead take a swig of my beer. Disticntly unimpressed, I decide that alcohol is not really my cup of iced tea. We chat about old times and new times and slowly move to the bedroom, where the conversation comes to a sudden halt when we realise all at the same time that one of us is going to have to occupy the mattress on the floor. A scuffle breaks out but ends abruptly as V. sends A.R. tumbling into me and squats on the bed. I take advantage of A.R.'s confusion and jump onto the bed myself. A.R. grumpily weaves towards the mattress.
"Just don't tell any Americans you shared a bed with your friend."
"Why what's the big deal? It's big enough for the two of us. It's not like we are snuggling or anything. Hell, its big enough for all three of us even."
"Exactly," we hear from somewhere below us, but A.R. is too tired to put up an argument.
"Trust me. You'll know after a few weeks here that no bed's big enough for two guys to share."
So saying he turns away from me and I turn away from him like estranged spouses.
The summer night in Boston is getting too cool for me and I pull the comforter lying at my feet.
My last thought as I drift off to sleep is, "VW Rocks..."
Monday, April 04, 2005
A Brand New Day
It's been almost a year since my last post. I don't know why I am restarting the blog when there is so much other stuff I should be writing. But it feels good to be 'out there' again. I have decided to start posting regularly again (or what passes as regularly for me). As usual, I will have the same problem (what should I write about?). My life has become exeedingly dull since I moved to North Carolina, so I think most of my posts are gonna be op-eds (read rants). Maybe it'll do me some good to vent steam on the blog. After all I can't break anything in the apartment - gotta keep it in pristine condition for my wife (soon to be). So much for the first post...somebody leave a comment so I know I am not alone in this world.
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