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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

A Four Letter Word

sLove is a four-letter word.
I keep having these horrible dreams about my friends. I mean, not horrible in the sense that something bad is going to happen to them but horrible in the sense that my friendship with them is ruined by something that happened. But the thing is, in my dream, I feel like the perpetual victim but, in actuality, the fault is all mine. I used to have issues with feeling too much for people. Feeling too possessive. Feeling too attached to people. And then I got hurt over and over again. From then onwards, I didn't want to trust anyone anymore with my feelings.
Sure, people say that it is better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all. However, I feel like I'm stuck in the perception that it's the other way around--better to have never loved than loved and lost. I know I'm talking about love but it all comes down to that, doesn't it? It's not that you either love them or you don't...no, it can never be that simple. It is more like to what degree you love them. That's where my dilemma lies. I have loved, to some degree, all the people who have made some impact in my life. But I'm stupid to love. It is stupid to love because then you expect to be loved back. And that doesn't always happen. It hurts more to know that you were never loved back. I'd rather not know, I think. Which is why I don't wear my stupid bruised heart on my sleeve anymore. Why I shy away from people who want to know me better. Why I appear aloof and sullen behind this wall of stoicism. Most people don't have the patience to find the "me" behind the wall and I suppose I don't make it any easier for them. The more they get closer the more afraid I become. Why should you care anymore? People just take advantage of your kindness. They take all they can and they sell the rest....like stupid frickin Blue Bell Ice Cream. I sound bitter. He he :)
I wanted to be a robot at one time. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. It is when you desire things that you feel disappointed when you don't get them.
Man. I sound horribly depressed. I'm not really. I'm just trying to make sense of my emotions. I was telling C.K. the other day that I have all this stuff trapped inside of me bursting to come out. She said you have to let go of your barriers. At the time, I didn't think there was a drawback to releasing your feelings because you then have unconditional positive regard for people. However, the drawback to letting it out is that you expect a little back. Is that so wrong? Sure, there are the few enlightened souls who selflessly give of their love and benevolence and want little or nothing in return, but I'm not there yet. At times I try to be, but then I am reminded, by these stupid dreams, for example, that I lack something. Like there is some kind of void that needs to be filled before I move on. Filled with what? I don't know. Perhaps the idea of my own self-reliance and sustainability?
You should never use the word "love" like an added bonus, something to go on top like a cherry or sugar sprinkles. Love should be the food that sustains you. If I say I love you, it is because I mean it.
Love is a four-letter word and can be just as harmful as the others. Use it only if you mean it.
That dumb dream last night made me cry like a sap even when writing this dumb melencholic entry. It is difficult to think that you give away a part of yourself...a part of your heart away... and it is just tossed in a box like some forgotten toy. Or perhaps ignored and stomped underfoot as people waltz all over the room oblivious to your existence. Or used as a temporary surrogate for something or someone else. Or even dissected piece by piece until there is nothing left but a faulty hypothesis.
Damn. I need a neuroleptic. Good night everyone.

Desiness

I miss Bangalore. One of our friends is over there right now and I wish I could switch places with him. In spite of days of hostile hostel conditions, air n' noise pollution, peopleanimalscarsbusesbikesautos on the streets, no television, and not-quite-so-American burgers from a place called Stars and Stripes, I loved the place. I know the essence of "my" Bangalore is not the place itself but the people I met and the things I did there. The place triggers a lot of memories... but I know it can never be the same again....
I do miss Bangalore--the place, but I suppose I miss "my" Bangalore even more.
Yesterday A.A and I went to mini India on Highway 3 and we ended up buying Mehendi. We put it on our hands. It's funny how a lot of people know what a mehendi "tattoo" is now. When I was in high school people were like "What the hell happened to your hand?!" like you were some kind of I-draw-on-my-hand-when-I'm-bored-freak. I guess being Desi is in nowadays. Exoticism commodified as my professor would say. It's kind of weird now but what happens when we start going out of style? Is fashion-related recognition of our culture the height of societal acceptance and inclusion? What do you guys think?

Lone Zone

I don't know why but I have a tendency to zone out when I'm with a large group of people. Hmm, I don't do that when I'm with a group of 3-4 people. Why is that? Am I too intimidated to have lots of people focus on me? So I just hush-up? I think that is it. In the meanwhile, I give off the impression as being some impenetrable pseudo-stoned daydreamer. In actuality, I'm a big wig wuss who's afraid of what people think of her if she opens her mouth or does anything attention-grabbing. I am reminded of those catatonic schizophrenic patients who try to sit perfectly still thinking that if they move, their world will crumble into fragments of chaos. In the same way, I move/speak less because the least I move the world, the better. The least I touch the world, the better. The least I make an impression of any kind, the better. Impressions can be good I guess but who is to say how people will view anything,

Priorities

I DARE YOU TO READ THIS. I DARE YOU TO WRITE ME. I DARE YOU."Where yo priorities at, girl?" I don't know. Things have been really screwy these past two semesters. Sometimes you have time to write but you just don't feel like writing. Or you feel like writing and don't have time. I've felt that way since May, daggnabbit! Well, I've neglected you long enough I think....left you on the back burner long enough to feel burned....I think that recently my priorities have been all flip-flopped. Money didn't matter to me, now it does. Friends in high places didn't matter to me, but now it does. Social prestige didn't....now it does. Success didn't....now it does. Is it America, I wonder? Would I have been destined to be a non-sinner in India? Or is it age? As we grow older do we become horriblly unidealistic people? My spiritual life, once a great font of joy and wisdom has slowly deteriorated into a few words murmured in the midst of some crisis. What matters to me now?? What matters to me anymore?? I search for love as the elixer to all my woes and find it not. My friends mattered to me and they still do. I always have had time for my friends but now.....relationships aren't nurtured anymore. They pass along the wayside like the much forgotten chaffs that time leaves behind. I want to write. I want my words to fall onto these pages like tears. Tears of all that I've kept within for so long. Writing is catharsis for me. Writing is my SCREAM, my CRY, my PAIN, my ANGUISH. Not many people understand that. Sometimes I try to forget that I understand that. If I could write epistle after epistle to all the world, I would. Where are the people I really cared about? Why is "out of sight-out of mind" such a true phenomenon. I NEED TO RANT AND RAVE RIGHT NOW. I NEED TO LET IT ALL OUT.I MAY NOT BE BEAUTIFUL ON THE OUTSIDE BUT DAMN IT.....i am.Well, I realized recently that I'm not most people's "type" in terms of physical beauty. Kind of sad. Who's"type" am I? Why am I attracted to handsome men? Shouldn't I have learned that I'm not physically good enough for them? You'd think I'd learn by now. My friends say that they want to help me find a man. What is this? The SAVE-L***-FROM-A-LIFE-OF-LONELINESS campaign? My parents encouraged me to put up a matrimonial ad. Which I did. It hasn't helped. I must be hideous or maybe be i'm too "special". I short bus must exist somewhere for me. Yea, I know....cheerful me and an outrightly depressing entry: it just doesn't match up. Happy people hurt too. See my heart....? It bleeds like yours.

Salmon

On Wednesday, I was watching a Nature program on PBS. I love PBS stuff nowadays....PBS seems so substanial compared to the other crap on TV. Anyway, the show was about someplace in Alaska where the Salmon go upstream to spawn. I caught the show somewhere in the middle and watched, fascinated, as the salmon wiggled and splashed their way through shallow riverbeds. It didn't matter that there was barely a few inches of water--some lifeforce, some instinct, pushed them on. Bears and wolves caught a few of them too...In the end, the salmon that got to the spawning place were already decaying from the inside, dying as their life cycle came to a close. They had to mate quickly. So they did. The male was ready to fertilize as soon as the female laid the eggs. The female covered the eggs with some gravel. She then, in the words of the words of the announcer, "allows herself to die". It was so sad. Heck, I started crying. It makes me wonder what the salmon were thinking, if they think at all. The entire goal of their life is to go upstream and regenerate or become food for other animals. Is that what life is all about? You live, you work to provide life for someone else, and then you die. Is this like our purpose? Are we no better than anything else on Earth? Does Ego get in the way of us accepting this? What if there was one Salmon that went against the grain? He lived in the sea and didn't go upstream to spawn. He would die too, right? If he could think as well as humans, how would he percieve his situation? He would probably think he was not like the other Salmon. He probably would wonder why he was different. He would probably condemn their mindless insistence on going upstream. He would probably ask "What's the point?" As he got older, he would have second thoughts. He would think of the salmon who went before him, their children, who laugh at this crotchety old salmon, the recluse of the sea, the crazy one who just eats and takes up space. As he got older, he would probably regret not having sex, having kids, having fulfilled his purpose, or having at least attempted to make the journey. He would think "What was the point in hanging around here? Why didn't I just go?" As he died, he would also think maybe "Is this all there is?" What did I contribute? How did I make a difference? Who knows? Maybe the old Salmon contributed by showing the younger ones how not to be? I think we all contribute something to the world. Maybe there is more than one purpose. We touch so many lives along the way...I suppose the salmon are lucky if they are unable think about it.

Edu-ma-cation

Funny...I suddenly feel as if I have nothing to vent about. Marriage: did that. The desi-classification-system thing: did that. How lame this is: did that. Now what? I would complain about my parents but that would just be for the sake of complaining. My brother? Nah, he's cool. Indian society? Well, I kinda did that with the marriage topic. How about learning?Hmm, don't think I've talked about that though its suddenly become a passion. Now honestly, this will not be a vent session so if you were here for that, you are welcome to stop reading now.I don't think I ever used to hate school really. Sure, I had my share of bullies but I learned early that if you remained inconspicous to the point of being invisible, they usually left you alone. I think the only thing I ever wanted to learn in school was how to read. I remember when I was like 3 or 4, I used to sit with a book and try to read by just knowing the alphabets. Lemme give you an example: the word CAT. Now, I only knew my ABCs so that word would be CEE AY TEE and put together it would be CEEAAYTEE. Now I was confounded as to why that creature was called a Ceeaytee when it was obviously a cat! I supposed if I was a child prodigy I would have figured it out on my own, but I didn't. And then when I got to school and finally learned phonics...it was like DUH. Reading was a breeze. Now spelling on the other hand...well, I digress.I loved to read. I loved stories of all kinds. My parents really helped to encourage that. I had like a whole closetful of Dr. Suess' books. He's still one of my favorites. I think when I was in second grade, Dad started checking out books for me from the public library. The first book he brought home was a children's book of stories from India. I fell in love. Soon, I wanted to read the whole series: Stories from China, Stories from Ireland...etc. I did, and then some. By that time I was hooked. This love followed me into high school.Now, as in Chinua Achebe's book, Things Fall Apart, in high school things fell part. I suppose I should blame it all on being an self-conscious adolescent but suddenly reading and learning didn't mean Jacques Schitt if you didn't have a boyfriend or a bod that would get you a boyfriend or even a personality that would get you into the 'cool' clique so you can meet a 'cool' boyfriend. Oh blah, I sound bitter. I'm sure there are plenty of people who actually had a fantabulous time in high school and that's all well and dandy. However, I had a crappy time. It really sucks not knowing who you are. You want to be the best and think you deserve the best, but when things keep happening that tell you that you are not...well, what can you do? I look back and think that my priorities were all wrong. It's hard to be a banana when you're an orange. Both are yum. BUT you can only be one of them, you know? My darn luck, bananas were really popular in high school.Of course, self-confidence plunged to an all-time low. I started listening to everyone but myself and THAT, my sweet gullible friend, was my downfall. Yes, I think of it as a downfall though without that episode I would not be where I am today. I wanted to get away from it all. I was taught that suicide was a sin and the last thing I needed was the wrath of a Supreme Being on top of all that. So I just left. Packed my bags and took off. Best damn thing I did, I tell ya.When you suddenly lose everything that your existence revolved around, you realize that you are left with only yourself. And TA-DA, I realized who I was. No, it didn't happen overnight but it did happen. All the junk that you were bogged down with are but a mere memory. THAT's when I realized that knowledge was what I desired. Some people get the same self-awareness by following their own dreams like painting or singing or dancing, etc. Whatever floats your boat. All that potential knowledge stored in library books and newspapers and textbooks....It overwhelmed me. Just call me Dr. Faustus (without Mephistopheles though). I learned to love to read again. However, this time, and perhaps this is a sign that I'm getting old, I realized its importance.I really don't know why I feed on knowledge. Maybe to hush up the incessant 'whys'in my head or perhaps to find out if anything in those books would lead me to the truth in myself, my purpose, the TRUTH....I believe no one book can tell you that. Books only direct your mind. You have to read a whole bunch of books just to get a summary of the whole story. And even if you read all the books in this world, it will just lead you to an abridged version. Now for the rest of your SELF....? Well, you would have to look beyond this world, I guess. And by world, I mean physical realm of reality.Yeah, I do tend to babble and as usual none of this makes sense. Forget I said anything. This is what happens when I start writing as I'm thinking. Stream of consciousness and junk...Well, sort of :)