With a wave of your hand, the acquisition of some spare folding tables and the procurement of 15 plastic table cloths, you could turn any room into a dining hall in under two minutes. At Costco, you never over- or under-bought, rather knew the exact number of bags of potato chips, 2-Liter bottles of Coke, containers of Dannon and bags of hard candies to feed a crowd of any size, plus any last-minute, non-RSVPed guests.

Those who didn’t prostrate before the altar of your vast knowledge of crowd control before birthdays, graduation or anniversary parties often paid the price in more ways than one. Functions without your fingerprints were never as good.

You weren’t scared of anyone. You had a PhD from the School of Hard Knocks and when you spoke, everyone listened. I’ve seen you go head-to-head with everyone from mess hall cooks to American wedding planners, janitors to Hindu priests, elected officials to Indian musicians, usually within the same afternoon. You always won. He who dared doubt you often felt your ire and disgust for years on end.

You never forgot the rigatoni. You were a visionary and realized early on that it was the appropriate side to every imaginable combination of Indian cuisine.

You also never forgot the thair chadam… Continue reading →

…or just of wads of rupees?

This one is so easy I’m (almost) embarrassed to blog it, but our duty of chronicling the ongoing encounter of Western and South Asian cultures requires that we note this first-person piece by the Los Angeles Times‘ new India correspondent, Henry Chu:

On a recent afternoon, as I stood surrounded by a dozen workers hammering, sawing and drilling in my new apartment, they materialized out of nowhere, two sari-clad women with suspiciously mannish features.

The taller one had a broad face, a big nose and a purple sari — a color I like, but not on her. The other was thin, almost bird like, in every way: face, body, voice. Something about their manner, or their rather harsh, heavily made-up look, put me on guard.

I’ll let you read the piece, noting only that although it certainly possesses a sensationalist edge, the author does note the historical background of hijras and recent status victories, such as the third-sex option on government forms. (How many other countries offer that, I wonder?)

In any case, Henry was shaken up by the shake-down:

The short one continued to appeal to me directly, gazing at me meaningfully and sprinkling her Hindi with unmistakable English phrases like “a thousand rupees” (about $22). At one point she knelt down and touched my feet in a sign of obeisance or importunity. Then, growing frustrated by my stinginess, she drew up the hem of her sari, perhaps to warn me that she was ready to flash her mutilated parts, a common tactic among eunuchs to hurry horrified partygoers into forking over cash to get their uninvited guests to leave.

I won’t spoil the ending. But I will issue a politically-correct tsk, tsk, at Chu’s sign-off line:

When I see them through the peephole, I don’t answer the door.

Instead, I tiptoe back and huddle quiet as a mouse, praying that they’ll go away, while an annoying voice in my head snickers, “Who’s the eunuch now?” I don’t answer that either.

Stay long enough in India, brother Henry, and you’ll surely grow a saffron set of your own!

Flame away, people. It’s a rainy day where I am right now, and we could use the heat. Continue reading →

Up until recently, I had always assumed that I was one of the few desis who seriously considered herself a goth. No, I don’t walk around in black lipstick and white powder–and that’s one of the misconceptions that I want this post to refute. The Desi Goth is a rare, largely nocturnal species that does not always associate with other desis, or goths. Here are a few simple guidelines.

1. I do not claim to universally define “Desi Goth.” I leave that to the comments section of this post. In my experience, both desis and goths are very touchy about labeling, which leads to some interesting problems of self-identification. That said, if you’re a Desi, and you find yourself influenced, moved or interested in goth culture, welcome aboard.

2. A brief history of goth culture here. There are an infinite number of types of goths. Marilyn Manson is not considered goth culture, but don’t tell that to his followers. Victorian goths, with their affinity for cognac and opium, their penchant for wearing ruffles and velvet in summer, their gramaphones and their oil paintings, have very little in common with the punk goth, who wears torn tee’s, squats in a basement apartment, plays in a death metal band, and is covered in Celtic tattoos.

3. Goth culture never goes away. It goes underground. From the tortured antiheros of Byron’s poetry, to Goethe’s Faust, to tecno-goth masterpieces like Blade Runner and Metropolis, to Noseferatu, Lestat, Dracul and all the other famous vampires, goth culture pops up in cycles in art, literature, pop culture and public consciousness. Particularly in troubled times. (The term gothic originates from the late 18th century, to describe popular and high culture reacting to political and social uncertainty. An excellent resource to the history of the gothic .; note the limited information from a Desi perspective. here

4. Misconception One: Not all goths work in video stores. There is such a thing as corporate goth. They work from within the system. Admittedly, their attire is restricted, but you do what you can. Continue reading →

After almost an hour of traffic, I’m nearing work, though I’m furious that this succession of delays means that by the time I get there, it will be too late to get fresh breakfast. Now that I’m off donuts, there’s not much left in the “continental” spread that I feel like eating.

WasnÂ’t there an amazing indie coffee place around here? I remember grabbing something hurriedly before my pre-wedding mani/pedi a few days agoÂ…I hadnÂ’t expected much, but after my first sip of perfectly brewed espresso, I was a believer. The place had a cutesy nameÂ…there it was: The Bean Counter. Unfortunately, parking was not allowed in front of it. Fortunately, I snagged a coveted “zone two” spot right around the corner. Go me.

I knew they were famous for a Cuban sandwich or similar, i.e. something I could never eat, but I wondered if they served breakfast. As yummily necessary as coffee was, it wasn’t a proper meal. I started to read the menu which was framed to the left of the front door—

“Just go in, I’m sure it’s fine.”

I slowly turned and found a very well-dressed older black man smiling at me. In my peripheral vision I noted a gleaming black town car, illegally parked.

I started stammering, I had been in my own little world before he yanked me out of it.

“Um, yes. It, um is. It’s good—really good actually. Excellent espresso.”

“That’s what I heard from the woman down the street. Thought I’d check it out. Well, I don’t want to crowd you, so…”

“Thanks you, I mean, thank you.”

My goodness I was an idiot first thing in the morning. Fine, second thing, too.

I went back to the menu but the only thing which appealed contained nutellla, which IÂ’m staying away from, since IÂ’m weaning myself from sugar. Just coffee then, I guess. I went in and walked all the way to the back of the narrow space, to the register.

“How many shots are in a large?” I asked, slightly ashamed that I knew exactly how to order my desired drink in Startwat lingo. I didn’t want to betray my shameful secret, so dumb questions were in order.

“Three.” She had a rather thick accent I couldn’t place.

Madre de Dios, thatÂ’s a lot. I remembered my junior year at Davis, when I went to Roma off A street right before a final exam and ordered a triple shot drink. I spent the majority of our two hour test period puking my brains out, leaving me a whopping 20 minutes to fill a blue book with my suddenly very shaky handwriting. Thank goodness it was just poli-sci. 😉

“Large, single-shot latte then.”

“Single? You single?”

Continue reading →