You know, I haven't always been addicted to fennel. At various points in my life I have been addicted to various things from gum to Bournvita. The weirdest addiction, though, has to be Vicks Vapor Rub. Back in Bangalore I was introduced to the stuff when I was suffering from a very bad cold. A.T, my best friend and roomate at the time, told me that I should put it on my forehead and nose to clear up the congestion. One girl, I don't remember at who at this point (Vicks kills brain cells!), told me that she sometimes puts it on her eyelids so that it will induce tears and basically force you to cry the cold out of your system. Hmm, so I was like, "That makes sense," being the health professions high school graduate that I was.
So I did the Vicks thing for about a week and the cold gradually disappeared. I suddenly realized that the Vicks-all-over-my-face was an unbelievable high. The tingling, the pain, the simultaneous sensations of heat and cold, and the eerie feeling that my brain was melting. Wow. That did it for me. Soon I couldn't go to sleep without it. I think more than a physical addiction, it was a psychological one. For a few minutes in the day, I could totally escape from my thoughts. My mind was focussed only on this Vicks-induced heightened sensory overload.
Since I no longer had a cold, I no longer really needed Vicks. I started sneaking out to the Sudhe Gunde marketplace in between classes to get the stuff. I started putting the stuff on only after B.A went to sleep, V.M went to the study room, and A.T went to take a shower. A couple of weeks later, I started going "to sleep" earlier and earlier. At one point, I went to my room directly after dinner. My roomates wondered what was wrong: thwarted love, some sort of illness, problems with school, etc. Of course, it was none of those things, though some people would argue that maybe it was a combination of all of those things. People thought I was weird but I didn't care: Vicksie, as I came to refer to my jar, became my best friend.
All was going well until the night I made a Vicks-muddled blunder. I had come home kind of late from college and missed dinner. So I went straight upstairs. When A.T. didn't hear from me she got worried and came upstairs to look for me. I must have been a sight. There was no light in the room save a lonely zero-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. I was crouched in my nightgown on my bed inside the mosquito net staring at the little jar of Vicks. I looked like a desi Gollum: "My preciooosssss."
Of course A.T. looked shocked and asked me what I was doing. "Nothing,"said I as I slowly put Vicksie behind me on the bed. "Ninde kayala enna?" "Umm, nothings in my hand." She walked closer, "Show me." I showed her my empty palm. She glared at me with such a look that I actually showed her Vicksie. "You are still using Vicks? Why?!?" I told her that I didn't know but that it made me feel good. She made me give her the jar and I was like, "Nooooooo! Wait! Maybe I'll just finish this jar and it won't be wasted." She ignored me, turned on her heel, said something to the affect of "Podee kazhathay" and walked out of the room.
Alas, I couldn't sleep that night. Later A.T and the others came and did a sort of Vicks intervention. They told me about another girl in the hostel who had been addicted to the Vicks Mentholated Cough Drops. They told me that there was something about Vicks that was not good. B.A. said, "We'd hate for you to have to return to America addicted to Vicks" I mean, seriously, all around me people were doing pot and other sort of bad-kid things and here, this ABCD, of all people, was addicted to Vicks, of all things. How utterly shameful.
I agreed with them that this would be too embarrassing a thing to be addicted to. No longer allowed to buy Vicks (A.T. wouldn't let me out of her sight when we went shopping), I gradually got over the withdrawal symptoms (sleeplessness, restlessness, being distracted) and became Vicksie-free! I, one of the fortunate few, had been saved.
Of course, I needed a new addiction at that point and good old Bournvita heeded my call. But that, my friends, is a whole 'nother entry.
Showing posts with label desi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label desi. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Saturday, December 27, 2003
Matrimonials
Damn those matrimonial ads! " God-fearing, ancient RC malayalee family hailing from central Travancore invites proposals from professional green-card or citizen men -doctors-engineers-computer-related anyone from RC families in the US, for their Fair & Lovely, US Educated, humble, independent (yet God and husband-fearing) smart, cooking skilled ("she slices, she dices"), old-fashioned (yet tech savvy), career-minded daughter (albeit FREAK of a daughter who gets drunk every chance she gets and parties til 5 in the morning). Sure, what more could you want.
Why do all matrimonials sound the same? Why can't they be truthful instead a jumble of cliches gleaned off of other ads. Why don't they just say, "As in the traditional manner of establishing marriage as the goal of human existence, I've got a daughter/son who is of marriagable age as society has deemed it. If you have one too, fabulous! I'm sure yours is wheat-complected and God-fearing too. How about you send me a picture. If your son/daughter is ugly or if our family-friends relate seeing him/her make out with some non-Desi, we shall politely refuse by saying he/she is too tall/short. It's the only decent way."
The sad thing is, if you are truthful in a matrimonial ad, it is so obvious that you must have written it yourself and not your parents. Parents include such attractive zingers such as "homely" to mean traditional and "God-fearing" to mean religious. These are catch-phrases that have proven their worth again and again. How can you beat that? You write something akin to "traditional and religious" and parents who read the ads will know something is up: "Ayyo, she is not God-fearing......her parents didn't write this ad! Oh goodness gracious, perhaps she is orphaned or perhaps she is a disappointment to her parents that she has to write her own ad. Ende devamay!!"
Another thing is that only parents read matrimonial ads and since they can tell which ones were written by their parental peers, they will point out the other ones as some sort of inticement. "See, this boy wrote himself. That means he is not being forced." Yeaaa right, like I'm not being forced when I'm given an ultimatum in the middle of a heated argument: "You write one or vee vill write for you!!" Yea, mom and dad, I have a lot of choice here, don't I?
I feel sorry most for those kids in my position who have to write an ad as their parents dictate it to them because supposedly the parents "don't speak English good, monay." And those poor unfortunates have to cringe as mom and dad analyze the range between "fair" and "wheat-complected," the validity of skin color as a religious and cultural indicator, and the modicum of difference between skin shades. Matrimonial ads are inherently racist, says I, especially when skin color is the basis of selection! Of course, people would be shocked to be accused of racism but in the same instant argue that somehow being "fair" makes for a "better" alliance. Yea, buddy, that makes a lot of sense: "I'm not racist but being white is prettier." What a load of crap.
Blah, so what's the point to my complaining? I'm still unhitched and not necessarily enjoying it. However, it's the principle of the matter, I say! My individuality has been distilled down to a description my parents pay per word to have some fish-wrap of a newspaper advertise me amongst a myriad of others. I don't stand out here. I sound just like the other ads around me, the others who have gone before, and the others who are yet to come.
How can you weed out a soulmate in all this verbose garbage? I advocate the use of a code word that only your soulmate would know. I think my code word would be synchronicity. Yea, so you have the typical matrimonial bs: "RC parents seek alliances....blah blah blah," and then all of a sudden the word "SYNCHRONICITY" would appear in all caps, for no rhyme or reason, right in the middle of the ad. Most people would be ignore it and silently blame the editor for being a lazy bum who can't even do his job. But, my soulmate, the bright, fantastic person that he is, would be, like, "hmmm" and would try to figure out this oddly positioned word and what it was doing there. And VOILA, we would meet, affirm that yes, it was indeed synchronicity, we would get married, live happily ever after, etc, etc, the end. La dee da.
Damn you. *L.J scowls and shakes an angry fist at the Malayalam newspaper sitting on the table* Where's my fennel? Ah, glorious fennel-induced sleep. Good night people!
Why do all matrimonials sound the same? Why can't they be truthful instead a jumble of cliches gleaned off of other ads. Why don't they just say, "As in the traditional manner of establishing marriage as the goal of human existence, I've got a daughter/son who is of marriagable age as society has deemed it. If you have one too, fabulous! I'm sure yours is wheat-complected and God-fearing too. How about you send me a picture. If your son/daughter is ugly or if our family-friends relate seeing him/her make out with some non-Desi, we shall politely refuse by saying he/she is too tall/short. It's the only decent way."
The sad thing is, if you are truthful in a matrimonial ad, it is so obvious that you must have written it yourself and not your parents. Parents include such attractive zingers such as "homely" to mean traditional and "God-fearing" to mean religious. These are catch-phrases that have proven their worth again and again. How can you beat that? You write something akin to "traditional and religious" and parents who read the ads will know something is up: "Ayyo, she is not God-fearing......her parents didn't write this ad! Oh goodness gracious, perhaps she is orphaned or perhaps she is a disappointment to her parents that she has to write her own ad. Ende devamay!!"
Another thing is that only parents read matrimonial ads and since they can tell which ones were written by their parental peers, they will point out the other ones as some sort of inticement. "See, this boy wrote himself. That means he is not being forced." Yeaaa right, like I'm not being forced when I'm given an ultimatum in the middle of a heated argument: "You write one or vee vill write for you!!" Yea, mom and dad, I have a lot of choice here, don't I?
I feel sorry most for those kids in my position who have to write an ad as their parents dictate it to them because supposedly the parents "don't speak English good, monay." And those poor unfortunates have to cringe as mom and dad analyze the range between "fair" and "wheat-complected," the validity of skin color as a religious and cultural indicator, and the modicum of difference between skin shades. Matrimonial ads are inherently racist, says I, especially when skin color is the basis of selection! Of course, people would be shocked to be accused of racism but in the same instant argue that somehow being "fair" makes for a "better" alliance. Yea, buddy, that makes a lot of sense: "I'm not racist but being white is prettier." What a load of crap.
Blah, so what's the point to my complaining? I'm still unhitched and not necessarily enjoying it. However, it's the principle of the matter, I say! My individuality has been distilled down to a description my parents pay per word to have some fish-wrap of a newspaper advertise me amongst a myriad of others. I don't stand out here. I sound just like the other ads around me, the others who have gone before, and the others who are yet to come.
How can you weed out a soulmate in all this verbose garbage? I advocate the use of a code word that only your soulmate would know. I think my code word would be synchronicity. Yea, so you have the typical matrimonial bs: "RC parents seek alliances....blah blah blah," and then all of a sudden the word "SYNCHRONICITY" would appear in all caps, for no rhyme or reason, right in the middle of the ad. Most people would be ignore it and silently blame the editor for being a lazy bum who can't even do his job. But, my soulmate, the bright, fantastic person that he is, would be, like, "hmmm" and would try to figure out this oddly positioned word and what it was doing there. And VOILA, we would meet, affirm that yes, it was indeed synchronicity, we would get married, live happily ever after, etc, etc, the end. La dee da.
Damn you. *L.J scowls and shakes an angry fist at the Malayalam newspaper sitting on the table* Where's my fennel? Ah, glorious fennel-induced sleep. Good night people!
Thursday, December 4, 2003
Supari Fiend
My supari ingestions had reached crisis levels, supposedly. Dude, it's not even real supari....just that crap they hand out at desi restaurants as a "mouth refresher/digestive aid" when you leave. Anyway, so we all call it "supari" since it resembles the actual stuff and it's easier than saying the-crap-they-hand-out-at-desi-restaurants.
Anyway, two nights ago, as I was working on my various papers and unconciously hand-to-mouthing my 6/8th bottle of "supari" that was left, A.A. and A.F came by to "see how I was doing". Yea, right. So I hid the "supari" bottle because I know they were going to check the level of "supari" depletion. Well, unluckily, they found it. Try as I might, I couldn't get the bottle back. They had to literally wrestle the bottle from me.
Man, it was like the whole Bournvita bottle episode back in Bangalore when Bobby and Anu took and hid my bottle of Bournvita....My bottle of Bournvita from which I religiously ate a spoonful of the malt chocolate (embued with vitamins and minerals) as soon as I came back from college. It was Bournvita, for gosh sakes! It was, like, my only source of calcium. Besides, it tasted really good. Just like "supari". And "supari" can be good for you. Fennel, which is a main component of "supari", is good for you. Fennel is a digestive aid and liver tonic. Seeeeee???
Anyway, so lacking my supari to keep me awake with my papers, I went to sleep, the withdrawal symptoms of extreme lethargy already taking over.
The next day, however, I did get my presentation done. Ironically, our last class was to be held at a desi restaurant nearby. I suppose I knew I would be in the presence of "supari" but I was too worried about my paper to care. At the end of the class time, our professor decided to give us a "treat": PAAN. That's right; the actual addictive betel-leaf-surrounding-actual-betel-nut-supari treat. My professor said in India you put the whole leaf-wrapped concoction in your mouth. "Aaaah refreshing", she said. Me and this other girl were the only desi-familiar people in class and suddenly my desiness seemed to be called into question if I did not put the whole damn thing in my mouth at once. So I did. Remind me never to put the whole of ANYTHING in my mouth if I don't know what it tastes like to begin with. It was horrible. Every bite sent another shock of painful sensations through my mouth. I was at a point where I couldn't spit it out or swallow it. I was doomed to chew and chew the abhorrant substance as it ate away at the inside of my mouth. My professor saw the grimace on my face..."Is it strong?" She asks. Good lord, woman!! If it had been any stronger my mouth would have been shooting fireworks up the wazoo. I could feel the insides of my mouth being worn away. I'm sure it was bleeding. Painfully, I finally ate the damn thing. My professor took a nibble--yes, JUST a nibble!--and stated rather nonchalantly, "yes, it is slightly stronger than stuff I've had before." I swallowed water in hopes of flushing it out but the water just reminded me of how much of my mouth had been made raw! I swore I would never eat paan or frickin "supari" or anything of the sort again. I tried to eat the "supari" at the door as we left, thinking it wouldn't be as bad. Bad idea. The fennel stabbed the raw surfaces along the inside of my cheeks and gums. I ran outside and spit the crap out. I'm sure people must have thought I was some uncouth FOB spitting the red crap all over the pavement.
Talk about being taught a lesson. Down with supari! (Fennel is still good for you though.)
It didn't help when A.A. and A.F. made me go through the ordeal of gargling salt water in order to heal the inside of my mouth. I guess they were right. I saw a website today about how they add mouth-tingling addictive substances to "supari" made in Pakistan and India. My "supari" habit must have made my mouth super-sensitive. Geeez, talk about rubbing salt in your wounds.
Anyway, two nights ago, as I was working on my various papers and unconciously hand-to-mouthing my 6/8th bottle of "supari" that was left, A.A. and A.F came by to "see how I was doing". Yea, right. So I hid the "supari" bottle because I know they were going to check the level of "supari" depletion. Well, unluckily, they found it. Try as I might, I couldn't get the bottle back. They had to literally wrestle the bottle from me.
Man, it was like the whole Bournvita bottle episode back in Bangalore when Bobby and Anu took and hid my bottle of Bournvita....My bottle of Bournvita from which I religiously ate a spoonful of the malt chocolate (embued with vitamins and minerals) as soon as I came back from college. It was Bournvita, for gosh sakes! It was, like, my only source of calcium. Besides, it tasted really good. Just like "supari". And "supari" can be good for you. Fennel, which is a main component of "supari", is good for you. Fennel is a digestive aid and liver tonic. Seeeeee???
Anyway, so lacking my supari to keep me awake with my papers, I went to sleep, the withdrawal symptoms of extreme lethargy already taking over.
The next day, however, I did get my presentation done. Ironically, our last class was to be held at a desi restaurant nearby. I suppose I knew I would be in the presence of "supari" but I was too worried about my paper to care. At the end of the class time, our professor decided to give us a "treat": PAAN. That's right; the actual addictive betel-leaf-surrounding-actual-betel-nut-supari treat. My professor said in India you put the whole leaf-wrapped concoction in your mouth. "Aaaah refreshing", she said. Me and this other girl were the only desi-familiar people in class and suddenly my desiness seemed to be called into question if I did not put the whole damn thing in my mouth at once. So I did. Remind me never to put the whole of ANYTHING in my mouth if I don't know what it tastes like to begin with. It was horrible. Every bite sent another shock of painful sensations through my mouth. I was at a point where I couldn't spit it out or swallow it. I was doomed to chew and chew the abhorrant substance as it ate away at the inside of my mouth. My professor saw the grimace on my face..."Is it strong?" She asks. Good lord, woman!! If it had been any stronger my mouth would have been shooting fireworks up the wazoo. I could feel the insides of my mouth being worn away. I'm sure it was bleeding. Painfully, I finally ate the damn thing. My professor took a nibble--yes, JUST a nibble!--and stated rather nonchalantly, "yes, it is slightly stronger than stuff I've had before." I swallowed water in hopes of flushing it out but the water just reminded me of how much of my mouth had been made raw! I swore I would never eat paan or frickin "supari" or anything of the sort again. I tried to eat the "supari" at the door as we left, thinking it wouldn't be as bad. Bad idea. The fennel stabbed the raw surfaces along the inside of my cheeks and gums. I ran outside and spit the crap out. I'm sure people must have thought I was some uncouth FOB spitting the red crap all over the pavement.
Talk about being taught a lesson. Down with supari! (Fennel is still good for you though.)
It didn't help when A.A. and A.F. made me go through the ordeal of gargling salt water in order to heal the inside of my mouth. I guess they were right. I saw a website today about how they add mouth-tingling addictive substances to "supari" made in Pakistan and India. My "supari" habit must have made my mouth super-sensitive. Geeez, talk about rubbing salt in your wounds.
Sunday, November 23, 2003
Labels
As a result of my last entry I have dealt with my emotional turmoil and have formulated a conclusion: I suppose the key to happiness is that one shouldn't care. Take life as a joke...as lila...divine play. At least this is what Swamiji said in that book. It does make sense though. Don't take everything so seriously. Don't expect anything to turn out the way you want to because things don't usually turn out the way you expect anyway. However, in the end it all makes sense. Everything that happens is connected to everything else. Anyway, life is usually hilarious if you think about it.
The other day A.A and I were at the desi store and we had just been talking about a having a nice South Indian, Kerala-style meal. The only South Indian restaurants I knew of were way on the other side of town in any direction from here. As we were lamenting this tragedy borne out of cultural isolation, we saw a flyer for a new restaurant not too far from where we live. You should have seen our eyes light up! South Indian food! Chettinad style! How much more Kerala/Tamil Nadu can you get?
Anyway, so we went there yesterday. It was fabulous and all of us really enjoyed the food. It's funny because when I was growing up, I hated dosas, idlis, sambar and vada....I don't know why. I guess being in Desi Land for 3 years really brain-washed my palate, so to speak.
I don't think there is even an ethnographic catergory for people like me yet. What am I? ABCD turned FOB? Is there such a thing? How is that possible? Or am I an ABAD? American Born-Again Desi...an ABCD who has been awakened to his/her Desi-ness? You know how much I despise labels because they are attached to essentialisms...An essentialism (stereotype), for example, would be that all ABCDs go clubbin' at clubs that have a semi-Desi atmosphere. However, I think labels allow one to have a sense of belonging. Like, I know how FOBS are....generally....I know how ABCDs act ....generally....I know how Americans are..generally...I guess essentialisms give you some handle on how people are and how to approach them. I don't think we could function without them. Until you know someone, it is difficult to see them beyond their label. It's always a good surprise when they realize you are different from your label. I guess people become more aware then.
Examples of label-busting: Yes, I'm Christian though I'm from India. No, I am not an authority on India though my parents are from there. No, I don't go clubbing with all of my cousins though I'm an ABCD. No, I don't know how to make parathas though I lived in India. No, I don't drink, smoke pot, and act promiscuous because I was born in America. Yes, I do speak Malayalam fluently though I'm an ABCD. No, I don't want to be treated like a princess though I am a woman. No, I don't speak Hindi though I lived in India for three years. No, I'm not a computer science major though I am Indian. No, I have not yet resigned to an arranged marriage though my parents want me to. No, all my close friends aren't ABCDs. No, I'm not anti-FOB because I'm an ABCD. Yes, I have anti-ABCD sentiments though I am one. No, I don't have temper tantrums every three weeks, on the dot, though I am a woman. My dad does not work at a gas station though I'm Indian We do not live in Stafford or Sugarland though I'm Malayalee.
AND NO, supari is not addictive, I just like it a LOT! Hehe.
Anyway, maybe that's why I went into this field. Maybe I'm a quintessential label-buster. I do enjoy it tremendously
The other day A.A and I were at the desi store and we had just been talking about a having a nice South Indian, Kerala-style meal. The only South Indian restaurants I knew of were way on the other side of town in any direction from here. As we were lamenting this tragedy borne out of cultural isolation, we saw a flyer for a new restaurant not too far from where we live. You should have seen our eyes light up! South Indian food! Chettinad style! How much more Kerala/Tamil Nadu can you get?
Anyway, so we went there yesterday. It was fabulous and all of us really enjoyed the food. It's funny because when I was growing up, I hated dosas, idlis, sambar and vada....I don't know why. I guess being in Desi Land for 3 years really brain-washed my palate, so to speak.
I don't think there is even an ethnographic catergory for people like me yet. What am I? ABCD turned FOB? Is there such a thing? How is that possible? Or am I an ABAD? American Born-Again Desi...an ABCD who has been awakened to his/her Desi-ness? You know how much I despise labels because they are attached to essentialisms...An essentialism (stereotype), for example, would be that all ABCDs go clubbin' at clubs that have a semi-Desi atmosphere. However, I think labels allow one to have a sense of belonging. Like, I know how FOBS are....generally....I know how ABCDs act ....generally....I know how Americans are..generally...I guess essentialisms give you some handle on how people are and how to approach them. I don't think we could function without them. Until you know someone, it is difficult to see them beyond their label. It's always a good surprise when they realize you are different from your label. I guess people become more aware then.
Examples of label-busting: Yes, I'm Christian though I'm from India. No, I am not an authority on India though my parents are from there. No, I don't go clubbing with all of my cousins though I'm an ABCD. No, I don't know how to make parathas though I lived in India. No, I don't drink, smoke pot, and act promiscuous because I was born in America. Yes, I do speak Malayalam fluently though I'm an ABCD. No, I don't want to be treated like a princess though I am a woman. No, I don't speak Hindi though I lived in India for three years. No, I'm not a computer science major though I am Indian. No, I have not yet resigned to an arranged marriage though my parents want me to. No, all my close friends aren't ABCDs. No, I'm not anti-FOB because I'm an ABCD. Yes, I have anti-ABCD sentiments though I am one. No, I don't have temper tantrums every three weeks, on the dot, though I am a woman. My dad does not work at a gas station though I'm Indian We do not live in Stafford or Sugarland though I'm Malayalee.
AND NO, supari is not addictive, I just like it a LOT! Hehe.
Anyway, maybe that's why I went into this field. Maybe I'm a quintessential label-buster. I do enjoy it tremendously
Thursday, April 12, 2001
ABAD
I used to be an ABCD (american born confused desi). And honestly, I totally dissed FOBs. That was before I went to Bangalore where I was so forcefully stuck in their shoes and became a FOB (fresh off the boat)myself. So I came back as a veritable amalgam of both worlds. I am neither one or the other. Just a lovely concoction. Since everyone is into creating new classifications (refer to LTOB (long-time-off-boat-desi article at www.littleindia.com)I though I'd come up with a new one too. ABAD: American Born Again Desi. Born again in the sense that love of desiness and desi-land was revived. So far, I only know of one other ABAD personally. A very rare species I guess. Most ABCDs who end up in India either stay in India (desi land) and become a full-fledged desis or come back to the USA and revert back to ABCD-ness.ABAD's are actually quite lovely people; able to balance and love both cultures and have a fantabulous time doing it. Of course, there are some FOBs and ABCDs who can do the same. Unlike some hostile desi purists, ABADs embrace the diversity that characterises India and Indians, no matter where the heck they were born or how long they lived anywhere.
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