<3

i got sad while i was standing in the shower today, knowing that you wouldn’t be waiting for me on the other side of the door.

dear lost and dazzled psychology student

work isn’t full of adventures. usually, i sit in a tiny gate house watching age old seasons of tv shows and hounding pals on various forms of internet chatrooms. the heat gets to me, i turn the fan on full blast, then resort to peeling off layers of clothing. but then i begin to feel exposed, a bit like a misshapen mannequin on display in a glass encased gatehouse situated in the middle of a busy road.
to take my mind off of things, i start to people watch. i begin with scanning the fellows standing at the bus stop, let my eyes wander over to the brave few who trek up to mary gates hall, and then i saw you. you were walking up the hill into the 41st street entrance of campus, and you looked simply smashing in your CEO style getup, but there was a certain familiar look on your face… i squinted, and realized. you looked quite lost.
you stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and i watched, completely entranced, as you glanced back down the street and then the other way.
with a little spring of a step, you bounded across the other side of the street and headed straight for me.
dear student, i couldn’t take my eyes off of you for a second, and i was taken aback when i realized that you were heading straight for my gatehouse, that endearing expression still pasted on your golden, gorgeous face.
by the time you were standing just inside the gate door, i had recomposed myself and hopefully conjured a more acceptable expression of amazement. you had politely asked me about the floating building stationed temporarily in the C-8 parking lot (formerly a psychology building that is being transported to a newly flattened area by Parrington hall) and were wondering where the new psychology office would be located.
i believed that you would for sure detest me after i revealed to you that i had absolutely no clue, but you surprisingly took it in stride, flashing a brilliant smile and straightening your blue striped button up.
you told me that you had no idea where to go for your important meeting now, and that you might miss what would be the most important meeting of your psychology career with a lab instructor.
i apologized, but you shook your head and smiled, and to my surprise, struck up the beginning chords of a conversation.
we conversed for a bit about the psychology major, into which you told me you were only recently inducted, and i was legitimately impressed by both your stature and your credentials, and even that way you ran your long fingers over your short dark hair.
student, you are even better looking from this close proximity, i can see that your eyes are not just a deep brown, but more like freshly pressed coffee grounds, and that your ‘do (short though it is) has the potential of curling into a less egotistical version of Vincent Chase’s Greek god of mops.
i’m not the easiest of people to chat with, and i am also not the least awkward of people either, so it surprised me to no end when you gave me that compliment. i wasn’t expecting it, and it caught me off guard so i’m pretty sure i was smiling like an idiot at you while you waited for a gracious thank you or something else of the sort.
no doubt, you’re quite skilled at this kind of thing, but a part of me (a really big big part of me) hopes that you meant what you said because it meant a lot to me. and yet a bigger part of me hopes that one day you will stumble across this blog post, realize that you just the made the day of a poor bored student stuck at work, and that you will maybe holla back.
but regardless, what you said made me smile for hours after.

cap’n crunch always saves the day

living by myself this year was probably the best decision i have ever made.
don’t get me wrong, i LOVE my roommates from freshman and sophomore year, and would room with them in a flash if the nordheim rent miraculously went down. but after my ordeal last year (which i am glad actually happened, because the roommate who moved in is a complete sweetheart compared to the one she replaced) i wanted to go a different route. constantly cleaning and inquiring after someone who insists that they don’t have personality issues (when they clearly do) was not fun, not fun at all.

so, here i am, in the most fabulously un-posh studio on the ave, cutting out my own second-class wall decals (i refuse to spend eighty bucks to buy them), pasting them up on the wall with double sided sticky tape, and creating framed poster prints out of my art pieces and colored ductape. am i creative? i certainly think so.

but mostly, i’m completely broke.

i’ve realized that after months of enjoying the best indian food ever (chicken tikka masala at the snap of a finger, hot buttered naan stacked on wicker baskets whenever i raise a finger, and mango lassis freshly whipped placed at my elbow) it SUCKS to be back in Seattle.
the only good point is that now, there are five thai restaurants to choose from, since good thai food is probably about the ONLY thing that India lacks on when it comes to food.
But where are the chaat bandhars? the streetside sugar cane machines? the blankets spread out on the roadside with mounds of stacked sitafel?
Not just that, but the giant meals you can buy for a mere 250 rupees (approximately five dollars) will be very much missed as well.
here, i could buy a fist-sized serving of pad kee mao at Thai-Ger Room for a shocking eight full dollars.

and so, with great trepidation and a heavy heart, i trekked to Safeway to load up on Cup o’Noodles, Cap’n Crunch, bread, and a gallon of milk.
And for every bite of overly sugary cereal i take, i’ll have to pretend its a spoonful of fresh, hot lamb biryani. :(

far, far away

what can i say about homesickness?
well, for one, it doesn’t hit you until you’re sitting alone on the couch, not able to sleep as the night wears on, perusing surfthechannel for a couple of good flicks to while the time away.
at first, you feel lonely.
then, gradually, you think back the last couple months spent with family. familiar faces, familiar places.
and finally, you realize what it means to want to be in two places at once.
which is not possible, and so you succumb, sadly, to thinking about wanting to be in the other place even though you are most definitely stuck somewhere else that is far, far away.

a reminder to myself

if at any time i think to succumb to my own weakness, i am to think about my sister and my brother and the enduring support i must offer my parents.

after all, my family is worth more to me than anything else in the world.

dreaming.

rawr.

i woke up from what was possibly one of the best dreams i’ve had in a long while.
i’m not going to go into detail, but i am going to say that i guess, deep deep down of course, i fancy abhishek bachchan very much. so much, that i even dream about him falling in love with me.
my subconscious mind had even figured out the logistics of our entire relationship (my dream self had asked abhishek pointedly, “what about aishwarya?”) and abhishek had once or twice reassured me with an all-knowing smile.
however, i think what made me happiest about this entire dream was that i woke up with a feeling like i had just run my palms along abhishek’s blessedly scruffy jawline.
which then drew my mind to a whole other (definitely not parallel) topic of thought: how i wish i were a man.
to organize this topic of thought, i compiled a list of all the good points of being a man:
1. scruff
2. height
3. deep booming voice
4. can be a total playa from da himalayas without a hit to the rep
5. can eat like a horse without ending up looking like one
6. are allowed to grunt and groan in the gym
7. marry the fairer sex
8. don’t have to go through childbirth

Scruff is pretty much #1 on the list for its apparent amazingness. Oh, what I would give for a 5 o’clock shadow, or the slight ruggedness of a light beard. There are many reasons why beard are awesome. Firstly, scruff instantly turns a boy into a maaaan. and not just any man for that matter, but a badddaaaassss mannnnn. Secondly, a beard lends a sense of worldliness and intelligence to the ordinary features of a man. Thirdly, it doubles as insulation. For warmth in the cold months of winter.

Most men are tall. I’m a short girl, and i guess i could just as easily wish upon a star that one day I could be a tall woman, but i don’t. why would i want to be a tall woman? that just narrows the small number of available men it is appropriate for me to marry… it’s much more convenient to want to be a tall man. it comes in handy. want to kill that spider that’s lurking in the corner of the ceiling? reach up and smash it. is the concert too crowded? so what… a tall man can look over everyone else’s heads.

as a short girl, i also have one of those annoyingly softer voices. if i wanted to speak up in lecture, only the rows around me would probably be able to hear my normal voice unless i wanted to shriek like a banshee. a guy can easily turn up the volume on his deep, booming voice. it commands attention with ease.

as for being a playa… i’m not saying its impossible for a girl to be one. in fact, it’s quite easy, but what kind of girl wants to be labeled as a breezy and sluzzy? but if a guy were to juggle around a few females for his brood, who’s to call him anything but smart and enterprising? a male playa is looked up to and even revered.

if i ate half as much as most of the guys i know, i’d balloon into jabba the hut. i guess along with everything else, most males are endowed with fantastic metabolisms. what happened to fairness and equality? thanks Bhagvan.

I am going to presently skip #6 because the point is pretty self explanatory. ever heard a girl letting out a groan or two as she hefts those weights over her shoulders? no. more likely you would hear those types of noises coming from a woman in the birthing ward of a hospital.

not gonna lie. most men are fugly. the ratio of better looks weighs heavily on the side of women rather than men. so what if once in a blue moon there’s a hrithik roshan or brad pitt? there are way more angelina jolies and sushmita sens existing in the world than there are george clooneys and shahid kapoors.

childbirth is a tedious nine month ordeal riddled with mood swings and discomfort. obviously, it’s something special, and, apparently, motherhood is precious… but if i could get away with becoming a parent without having to endure morning sickness and weird cravings for oysters and bhel puris, i’d take it.

ah men.

how to be an DesiGangsta

if you have ever seen Bluffmaster (the abhishek bachchan/priyanka chopra starrer that came out years ago) you’re probably familiar with that cringe you get everytime you see abhishek try his brown hand at being a G.
sidenote: what is a “G?”
from that lame fedora he wears, to the Hingrish he imitates with a terrible americanized accent. OG? massive fail.
us desis need to create a gangsta image of our own, not just based off of those political thugs, but something actually original. a DG? DesiGangsta fo shoz.
maybe some tips need to be taken from shah rukh khan. after all… he was detained at the airport for being such a G. must be that badass attitude.

in order to be a DG (DesiGangsta), there are a couple of rules to follow:
1) lose the long lungi. desi gangsta don’t need a dress, they need easy movement, and they need to flaunt their possession of interesting and eye-catching boxers. i’m not saying that the DG needs to stay away from llungis overall, since they are quite comfortable (freedom of movement and all that), i’m just thinking in terms of perhaps shortening the lungi (similar to going from pants to crops) and then slinging them around so low that the boxers can be seen. a good point would be perhaps mid-thigh, that way those beezies can get a full view of the printed boxers most Gs wear.

swaggeristic

2) gangstaspeak is rough, abbreviated, and difficult to comprehend.
example: “yo gotsta git ma bling-bling fa sho, yo brizzle, dis shizzle ain’t gotcha benjamins on dat counta yo.” (translation: i have to get my jewelry, hey bitch, this shit isn’t worth hundreds of dollars.)
i understand that it might be difficult to do such with a beautiful language like hindi or urdu, but the real gangsta has to make his speak crude. it lends to the unintelligent and rugged persona that a gangster must preserve.
perhaps if we adapt hindi/urdu to the gangstaspeak, it will be easier:
example: a desi says, “sab kaise ho?” a desi G says back, “kuch nahin, yaarizzle. bilkulizzle!”

3) one word: bling. i think desi people have got this one down. it’s hard to find anyone who doesn’t sport a couple gold rings or even some studs. and that chain? everyone has it for sure.

she's blingin' fo sho

4) always ALWAYS incorporate an offensive word in every sentence. this, once again, won’t be very difficult for many desi people to adapt to. just slip in a bhen chod or saala or kutti into every thing you say.
example: yaarizzle, woh saala bhen chod kahaan ho? kutti…

5) gangstas always refer to their women as “snickers,” “beezies,” “brizzles,” or “ho.” snickers aren’t all that popular in south asia. i would suggest that a DG refers to his women as “five stars,” “munchies,” or “perks.” (maybe even perkz) those are the real chocolate bars of “da desh.”

6) got that new short lungi slung around your hips so low? shabash. now, the DG needs a swagger like no one else on the corner. most of a G’s swagger comes from having the waist of their pants/denim crops so low around their knees that it restricts their movement. the whole point of lungis is to give real men their deserved freedom of movement, so we’ll have to think of a different type of swagger for DGs. for this, we’ll have to delve into the heritage of a desi, straight back to their rich bharatnatyam roots. for a dancer, the walk is very important, reflecting all the grace of a peacock and the poise of a himalayan tiger. the DG has to dive into this grace and persona to achieve his swagger.
i have included this instructional video for inspiration on achieving a DG swagger:

7) perfect the pout and only smile to show off that grill, DG. In between pouting, the desi gangsta can blurt out rhyming couplets. if you find it hard to rhyme hindi/urdu words, feel free to mix in some hingrish:
example: arey get up and dance yehi tera chance!
if the DG has trouble thinking up original couplets, try spitting out some actors and actresses names to a steady beat, chances are any real G will look at you like you’re the new LudaKrishna.
example: dharmendar jitendar amitabh amir khan! yo yo!

ain’t nothin but a g thang, baby.

मुझे बिल्कुल पता नहीं है

i don’t understand why i’m sitting here (or rather, lying here in bed) thinking up a million different ways to open up this new post. i could begin with a little intro about how i’ve been slowly eaten alive by the billions of mosquitos breeding in stagnant water during monsoon season (but i’ve grown quite brave nowadays and attempted slamming some of the bloodsuckers into the wall, with some success and dead mosquito parts smashed across my palm). or perhaps, i should dwell on my mother’s latest lecture on wanting to see me well settled (keep in mind that the desi definition of “well settled” has no association with the western notion of “successful” or “independent;” rather, it is most directly related to the thought of “marriage” and “family”). or maybe a little story about the new wannabe marathon racers that happen to attempt running at the Aparna Orchids gym at the same time that I go training (may i add that they always try to discretely glance over at my treadmill’s stats from time to time as they huff and puff through their red light green light styled running?). nice to know i’ve started a trend for the better though.
either way, i dont know why i care so much. who reads this anyway?
or… (as i’m guessing is the case) i’m starting to feel a bit depressed, as the last week and a half of my stay in the motherland shoves an ugly and unappreciated countdown in my face. what is it now? ah… twelve days, two hours, and twenty-four minutes… give or take a few.
the time will pass, unexpectedly i’ll find myself dumped on the curb of sea-tac airport’s curving arrival lanes, forced to swap cluttered, haphazardly planned streets for immaculately clean and organized ones. unrelenting noise levels and raucous honks for the stillness of ordered life and dinners before 7pm.
the horizon full of minarets and vimanams for skyscrapers and a lone space needle.
the sound of evening prayers replaced by the thumping bass of a frat party or two.
chai at every point of day turned into visits to starbucks, a whole day’s work for some transferred into a sterile white cup full of the cheapest drip coffee. with room? yes. and a pump of vanilla, please.
surprising, that i should find myself feeling more than slightly sad that i will have to make my life in this kind of place.
although i may dream of hot dusty days, red clay ground, the sound of street cricket across the way, the sari-clad women balancing piles of laundry on their heads, the frighteningly balanced volcanic rock formations at the outskirts of the city, the smell of chai masala being thrown in boiling water, tandoors housing shelves upon shelves of the freshest naans, chaat bhandars gently tapping open the shell of a puri (i can go on and on forever)…
i live in a place far too different.

rickshaws and rabri stands

this post also happens to be a continuation of “fifth story views” ~

this time, when i turned my chair around to stare out the fifth story window, i was a little surprised.  work had been too demanding the past couple days for me to really notice the landscapes of gachibowli, and so it was with a little trepidation that i viewed the new concrete foundation that followed the east-facing wall of the DLF building.  i am kind of hoping that its not a foundation for a building over the height of four stories, and if it is, well i’m glad that my internship is ending soon.

already, the thick rusty wires that traveled up out of the concrete reached just below my window, and i’m sure that if it opened up, i could almost reach out and touch them. the thicker dirt road of the field seemed to be covered in gray  gravel, a step up from the rust red dirt it used to be before.
today, while i stood with a few of my coworkers in the tiny room off the west hallway that served as a modern chai stall for the intelligently worthy, i asked them how long they expected the DLF building to be standing by its lonesome self on a horizon only sporadically dotted with malaysian townships.
they looked at me a little strangely, as if asking, “why is this abcd asking about the hitech city buildings of gachibowli?”
but i suppose they took pity on my curious expression and indulged in an answer that both horrified and surprised me, “a few more months.”
a few more months and the DLF building will soon be surrounded by smaller offices, the buffalo and cows lounging lazily under the shade of tree lined roads replaced by chaat and chai stalls and the ever-growing bustling indian population of rickshaw drivers and household maids.
maybe even a GVK-2 worthy mall standing at the corner where the local dhaba had once set up his tin roof and glass case filled with empty gol gappe shells.

the boundaries of Hyderabad are elastic, stretched out as far as shamshabad and kukatpalli. And, when had Secunderabad been taken over by Madhapur, and now Madhapur overtaken by the tall servant quarters districts in the distance?
to think that in maybe three years, i’d come back to find the brand new, still glistening DLF building taken over by smaller companies, and a new CSAI office in the far outreaches of an even larger Hyderabad. like a rabid race, our species crawls over new arid lands, cultivating, building, destroying, and replenishing.
the volcanic rock formations of hyderabadi plains chiseled away at, and lying in piles of rubble at our feet.

the equations of the economic population problems ran through my head, as i leaned back in my ergonomic chair to watch the monstrous lorris pass by the roads, carrying loads of old volcanic rock. how much longer would it take before every square foot of empty land in india is taken over by rickshaws and rabri stands? the already polluted waters of the ganga, slowing to a sluggish mud-like travel down the indic plains, its nutrient-rich waters turning into sludge and mucus. the dust-filled skies, and blood red sunsets blotted out by a thick skyline of tall slums and skyscrapers. flyovers built over skinny roads, bridges built over every bottleneck of water, creating a maze of transportation like a series of snakes and ladders from the sky. every road lined with clustered buildings, every room piled with breathing bodies, every step a suffocatingly close stumble into your neighbor’s path.

of course logically, it couldn’t happen, as everyone versed in economics knows. the population problem has its own solutions, limited by space, by resources, and by mortality itself. but im sure that with the rate at which things are going, destruction will come close enough.

browns snogging

why is saif's shirt tucked in?

topic: desi actresses and actors kissing on the big screen
a) not attractive
b) highly awkward when you’re sitting with your parents
c) makes you want to barf up the popcorn you just ate
d) western obsession, much?

ok. think back on all the hollywood big screen kisses that are burned into your memory. ryan gosling and rachel mcadams in the notebook. passionate? yes. sexy? yes. awkward? no.
angelina jolie and brad pitt in mr. and mrs. smith. wildly romatic? yes. sultry? yes. clumsy? no.
rachel weiss and hugh jackman’s desperately doomed kisses in the fountain. heart-wrenching? yes. graceless? hell no.
ok, got a solid visual? good.

now, imagine a spaced out deepika padukone and a wrinkly saif ali khan staring into each other’s glossy eyes and smacking at each other’s lips with worse poise than an uncoordinated lusty teenage couple sucking their faces off like floundering fish gasping for air. incompetent? YES. inept? YES YES.

please. if brown people are expected to accept the blasphemy of onscreen kissing, can actors and actresses at least make it somewhat enjoyable to watch? i’d rather take the downcast glance of a shy deepika padukone than her brazen and offbeat lip locking.
and i’d much rather take saif ali khan’s lame dance grooves and lip sync to “jab bhi koi ladki dekha, mera dil deewana bole, ole, ole, ole!” than his puckered plunge at deepika’s face.
gross.

especially when you try to look anywhere but at the big screen, accidentally catch your mom’s awkward glance over at you, and finally have to settle for staring at your lap.
dear mr. saif ali khan and miss deepika padukone, i’m sure that you both get your share of kissing and whatnot with your respective significant others, but i beg of you, i don’t want to have to suffer through your appalling (and yes, slightly disturbing) necking sessions throughout the duration of “Love Aaj Kal.” it honestly would’ve been a much better movie on the whole if there was a little more chunni tossing, giggling, and running around trees.

i want the old romance back. thank you.