Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Happy New Year
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Archiving
When Barack Obama visited Berlin a few months ago, more than 200,000 of its citizens turned up to hear him speak. Victory is theirs.
Less than twelve hours ago, in Chicago, a similar number of Americans joined him in celebrating an extraordinary moment in their history. Among them was Rev. Jesse Jackson, who saw a man fulfil his own unfinished American dream. Victory is his.
Around the same time, a middle-aged, semi-literate man from a West Bengal village, who follows not a word of American English, stood glued to the live telecast on CNN in my house. He was watching with genuine joy another man, thousands of miles and cultures away, who does not speak his language and of whom he knows precious little, be on his way to becoming the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. Because they share the same name, Hussein. Victory is his.
I have nothing to add to the immense body of commentary that has and will be recorded about Obama's election to the Presidential post. This post is a personal tribute to a moment in history that I am proud to have been around for. Barack Obama has made big promises, and it remains to be seen whether he will deliver. His victory reflects the wish for change more than the conviction that this change can be brought about in any certain way. But that the American people have embraced the need for this change, and welcomed it in so triumphant a manner, speaks of good things to come. This is a victory for the minority voice, a recognition of the fascinating hybridity that embodies the American (and global) life. It is a remarkable moment to be a part of. Victory is ours.
Less than twelve hours ago, in Chicago, a similar number of Americans joined him in celebrating an extraordinary moment in their history. Among them was Rev. Jesse Jackson, who saw a man fulfil his own unfinished American dream. Victory is his.
Around the same time, a middle-aged, semi-literate man from a West Bengal village, who follows not a word of American English, stood glued to the live telecast on CNN in my house. He was watching with genuine joy another man, thousands of miles and cultures away, who does not speak his language and of whom he knows precious little, be on his way to becoming the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. Because they share the same name, Hussein. Victory is his.
I have nothing to add to the immense body of commentary that has and will be recorded about Obama's election to the Presidential post. This post is a personal tribute to a moment in history that I am proud to have been around for. Barack Obama has made big promises, and it remains to be seen whether he will deliver. His victory reflects the wish for change more than the conviction that this change can be brought about in any certain way. But that the American people have embraced the need for this change, and welcomed it in so triumphant a manner, speaks of good things to come. This is a victory for the minority voice, a recognition of the fascinating hybridity that embodies the American (and global) life. It is a remarkable moment to be a part of. Victory is ours.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Listmania
Right, so, hullo and everything. Long time n awl.
Here's the deal, you need to close your eyes and think of 3 books that make you happy. The first 3 that come to mind. No thinking hard allowed, tell me just off the top of your head.
Here's what I came up with:
1. My Family and Other Animals - Gerald Durrell
2. Boy - Roald Dahl
3. Abol Tabol - Sukumar Ray
I was a little amazed at what I got. Primarily because the last time I'd read any of these 3 books was over a dozen years ago, sometimes more. Yet these are what came to mind immediately. Now tell me yours.
As an afterthought, maybe we could share some of the less common books with each other, those who are in the same city could, at any rate.
Here's the deal, you need to close your eyes and think of 3 books that make you happy. The first 3 that come to mind. No thinking hard allowed, tell me just off the top of your head.
Here's what I came up with:
1. My Family and Other Animals - Gerald Durrell
2. Boy - Roald Dahl
3. Abol Tabol - Sukumar Ray
I was a little amazed at what I got. Primarily because the last time I'd read any of these 3 books was over a dozen years ago, sometimes more. Yet these are what came to mind immediately. Now tell me yours.
As an afterthought, maybe we could share some of the less common books with each other, those who are in the same city could, at any rate.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The way you treat a thing can change its nature.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Rose Aylmer
Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.
-- Walter Savage Landor
I did not know her at all. It feels horrible now to wish I had. May she have left behind survivors.
To think that my last post featured a woman who had fought that same battle. And won. The irony.
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.
-- Walter Savage Landor
I did not know her at all. It feels horrible now to wish I had. May she have left behind survivors.
To think that my last post featured a woman who had fought that same battle. And won. The irony.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
1. There is such a thing as knowing too much. An eventful past to reconcile with. And we haven't even got to my own.
2. I hate this template. But I hate the alternatives more. I also mean the blog.
3. With feeling comes pain.
4. I own 7 articles of maternity wear. My biological clock is set on snooze, apparently. This is costing me more than a baby. Dammit with the bloody hormones.
5. I still can't spell accommodate and obsessive correctly the first time.
6. I am incapable of writing academic papers. I am even less capable of writing chicklit. I have tried my hand at both. Not an hour ago. The paper begins with the myth of Echo and Narcissus. The chicklit began with the legend,"She blew a smoke-ring into the night air and declared, 'I hate tampons and men.'" I have wisely abandoned both. Paper and chicklit, not tampons and men.
7. This means I will never be rich or educated. Looking for one number millionaire male. Single, fat fetish preferred.
7. I have been winking at tiny human things. The response veers from great amusement to heartbreaking indifference.
8. Twice I dreamt of a room without a floor.
9. I think I got tricked.
10. I hate not being able to tell it like I feel it. I think I will do the fashionable blogshift.
11. Long-distance relationships:
pro -- No waxing! Ever!
con -- Right when you begin checking out that sexy geek, he will call and proceed to guilt the shit out of you. Besides, sexy geek can't tell if you're a man or a woman, what with all that virile undergrowth.
12. Bosses. Sleep eludes.
13. I'd written virulent outgrowth back there. I have GRE in a month.
14. Shit, I have a deadline and I can neither work nor sleep.
15. I watch Stacked to take fashion tips from the fat woman behind the counter. I don't know what the hell is going on in that show, and I don't see why Pammy's boobies should be considered ample substitutes for wit and humour. But that is none of my concern, because doods, I'm rooting for the fat chick. [I am not being condescending here, I just don't know her name or that of the character she plays. Or any of those characters. It's a very forgettable show.]
Five minutes later
Okay, googled and hyperlinked. Nobody's gonna call me a weightist. Her name's Katrina on the show. Her real name's Marissa Jaret Winokur, and she won a Tony! I liker.
Ten minutes later
This woman survived cervical cancer, had to get a hysterectomy done and didn't tell nobody about it! PLUS she won a TONY! And she was on one of them celebrity dance shows! Where she swung like a mad momma! She's big and pretty. I liker loads.
Pics courtesy www.etonline.com and www.instyleweddings.com
2. I hate this template. But I hate the alternatives more. I also mean the blog.
3. With feeling comes pain.
4. I own 7 articles of maternity wear. My biological clock is set on snooze, apparently. This is costing me more than a baby. Dammit with the bloody hormones.
5. I still can't spell accommodate and obsessive correctly the first time.
6. I am incapable of writing academic papers. I am even less capable of writing chicklit. I have tried my hand at both. Not an hour ago. The paper begins with the myth of Echo and Narcissus. The chicklit began with the legend,"She blew a smoke-ring into the night air and declared, 'I hate tampons and men.'" I have wisely abandoned both. Paper and chicklit, not tampons and men.
7. This means I will never be rich or educated. Looking for one number millionaire male. Single, fat fetish preferred.
7. I have been winking at tiny human things. The response veers from great amusement to heartbreaking indifference.
8. Twice I dreamt of a room without a floor.
9. I think I got tricked.
10. I hate not being able to tell it like I feel it. I think I will do the fashionable blogshift.
11. Long-distance relationships:
pro -- No waxing! Ever!
con -- Right when you begin checking out that sexy geek, he will call and proceed to guilt the shit out of you. Besides, sexy geek can't tell if you're a man or a woman, what with all that virile undergrowth.
12. Bosses. Sleep eludes.
13. I'd written virulent outgrowth back there. I have GRE in a month.
14. Shit, I have a deadline and I can neither work nor sleep.
15. I watch Stacked to take fashion tips from the fat woman behind the counter. I don't know what the hell is going on in that show, and I don't see why Pammy's boobies should be considered ample substitutes for wit and humour. But that is none of my concern, because doods, I'm rooting for the fat chick. [I am not being condescending here, I just don't know her name or that of the character she plays. Or any of those characters. It's a very forgettable show.]
Five minutes later
Okay, googled and hyperlinked. Nobody's gonna call me a weightist. Her name's Katrina on the show. Her real name's Marissa Jaret Winokur, and she won a Tony! I liker.
Ten minutes later
This woman survived cervical cancer, had to get a hysterectomy done and didn't tell nobody about it! PLUS she won a TONY! And she was on one of them celebrity dance shows! Where she swung like a mad momma! She's big and pretty. I liker loads.
Pics courtesy www.etonline.com and www.instyleweddings.com
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Words, wide night
Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words.
-- Carol Ann Duffy
Being alone was easier despair.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Boss.
The FIRST thing they do is attack the ladies' loos.
I went up and down the Arts building Thrice to find a functioning ladies' toilet. They were either locked or being renovated. Or one had to leap over the (uninviting. [duh]) piece of shit at the entrance of the only one that was open.
So I made horrified Science dork stand guard in front of a men's loo in the paasher building while I peed. I never imagined I'd call anyone bhaiti. Khyak. I must be getting old.
No, seriously, I must. I can't hold it in for as long as I used to be able to.
What's troubling is, we used to not have to be nice to the boys while we hijacked their toilets. Ah well, a little discretion relieves tummy ache. I will stop now.
It's good to be back. Stories to tell already.
But I need to flush sometimes dudes. Give us back our rest rooms.
[Yesyes, comments. I remember. Lovely little people, feel my pain. And paralyzing lethargy.]
I went up and down the Arts building Thrice to find a functioning ladies' toilet. They were either locked or being renovated. Or one had to leap over the (uninviting. [duh]) piece of shit at the entrance of the only one that was open.
So I made horrified Science dork stand guard in front of a men's loo in the paasher building while I peed. I never imagined I'd call anyone bhaiti. Khyak. I must be getting old.
No, seriously, I must. I can't hold it in for as long as I used to be able to.
What's troubling is, we used to not have to be nice to the boys while we hijacked their toilets. Ah well, a little discretion relieves tummy ache. I will stop now.
It's good to be back. Stories to tell already.
But I need to flush sometimes dudes. Give us back our rest rooms.
[Yesyes, comments. I remember. Lovely little people, feel my pain. And paralyzing lethargy.]
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Things/thoughts/people
Cold and wet, like the days.
Smile. Better than speech and discovery.
Which is a better word - fulsome or blossom? Blossom. So how come I get to use the other one more, hain?
Walk towards the light, walk into darkness. Either way, you're blinded.
Much has been left behind.
Stop asking me how I feel. It is enough that I feel.
Pursuit. Persuasion. Perjury.
"What does freedom taste like?" she asked. Rain? I don't know. Your thoughts?
Nothingness and a constant buzzing.
Unwell. Like a fever. Like a viral fever? Like contagion. Well, unwell. khyak
Yes, I feel better. Because you only want results. Because there is no truth in what you do not know. How I laugh sometimes.
Voices spilling. and William Butler Yeats.
For you I bleed myself dry. Coldplay. Yellow.
William Rubin, Esq. Him of the pickled liver and artful despondency.
Dan.
Was cat, now hanky.
Smile. Better than speech and discovery.
Which is a better word - fulsome or blossom? Blossom. So how come I get to use the other one more, hain?
Walk towards the light, walk into darkness. Either way, you're blinded.
Much has been left behind.
Stop asking me how I feel. It is enough that I feel.
Pursuit. Persuasion. Perjury.
"What does freedom taste like?" she asked. Rain? I don't know. Your thoughts?
Nothingness and a constant buzzing.
Unwell. Like a fever. Like a viral fever? Like contagion. Well, unwell. khyak
Yes, I feel better. Because you only want results. Because there is no truth in what you do not know. How I laugh sometimes.
Voices spilling. and William Butler Yeats.
For you I bleed myself dry. Coldplay. Yellow.
William Rubin, Esq. Him of the pickled liver and artful despondency.
Dan.
Was cat, now hanky.
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