Well, thanks to everyone for the lovely welcome, I’m very happy to be here–if a little nervous about suddenly bloggint to a large audience. My blog the lawyerwriter seems to generate a few hundred hits a day, which pretty much sums up my known friends, enemies, family and ex-boyfriends. From what I can tell, Sepia Mutiny gets about 16,000 hits a day. So this is a little like having a spotlight thrown on you while you’re singing in the bathub. You’re glad for the attention, of course, but you really wish you’d had a few more lessons to prepare yourself for the sudden publicity. Continue reading
Category Archives: Musings
Everybody Fatwa!
It’s interesting how peoples’ devotion to free speech changes when it’s their sacred cow getting gored. Celebrated advocate for free speech Salman Rushdie once threatened another writer saying, “If you ever write mean things about my wife again, I’ll come after you with a baseball bat.”
An Indian Catholic has offered a Rs. 11 Lakh bounty for Da Vinci Code author Dan Brown, “Dead or Alive”
Similarly, while Catholics have not had a violent reputation for at least a century, the movie version of the Da Vinci Code is getting many of the pious hot under the collar. Cardinals at the Vatican first advocated a boycott against the movie, then unspecified legal action against the movie and the book, arguing:
“This is one of the fundamental human rights – that we should be respected, our religious beliefs respected, and our founder Jesus Christ respected,” [Link]
In India, the Catholic faithful are going further still. In Bombay, demonstrations call for the banning of the movie, and one former city official has even gone so far as to put a bounty on Dan Brown’s head:
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The movie on the right has the tagline “story of a naughty nun” |
Days before the film based on Dan Brown’s bestseller hits cinemas in the country, the Catholic Social Forum has called people of all faiths in Mumbai to fast unto death from May 12 if the government fails to ban the “anti-Christian” film. If that were not enough, a former corporator Nicholas Almeida, has done a Haji Qureishi, announcing a reward of Rs 11 lakh for anyone who “brings the author dead or alive before him”. [Link – thanks WGIIA]
[Interestingly, the HT has removed this story from their news archive, but it’s still available through the link above]
The head of the Catholic Secular Forum has also issued a veiled threat / warning about the consequences of releasing the Da Vinci Code movie:
“You can’t make fiction on a religious figure. Tempers are already running quite high and there’s no way of saying what could happen if the movie is released,” he said. [Link]
Brown illegals look like Ahnold
In our earlier discussion about immigration reform, many readers asked “What does this have to do with us?” and “Why should legal South Asian-Americans care about illegal immigrants?” The short answer is an apparent non-sequitur: Ahnold Schwarzenegger.
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Once an illegal, now a governor, someday a President? |
Ahnold’s immigration history is similar to that of many illegal desis. Like them, he didn’t wade across the Rio Grande. Instead he entered the country legally and then violated the terms of his visa.
Ahnold first came to the US in 1968 on a B-1 Visa with the following rules:
“a non-immigrant in B-1 status may not receive a salary from a U.S. source for services rendered in connection with his or her activities in the United States” [Link]
However, in his own autobiography, Schwarzenegger said that bodybuilding supremo Joe Weider gave him an apartment, a car, and a salary of $200/week during this period.
A year later, Weider was able to sponsor Schwarzenegger for a H-2 visa, which allowed Schwarzenegger to work, but only in the area related to his visa. However,
…he violated the terms of his H-2 work visa by launching this bricklaying business in 1971… immigration attorneys across the country said Schwarzenegger would have been barred by visa restrictions from starting his own business… “That would be considered a violation of your status, and he would have been subject to deportation.” [Link]
None of this caught up with him though. We all know the Schwarzenegger Cinderella story – he made it big in bodybuilding, endorsements, real estate, and movies. He was never deported, and instead became a US citizen in 1983 (he still retains Austrian citizenship on the side). He married a Kennedy, hobnobbed with Reagan and Bush, was elected Republican governor of California, and is now angling to become the President of the United States. All of this was possible precisely because his previous immigration irregularities were overlooked. However, if the Sensenbrenner bill (1, 2) becomes law, others will be denied this chance and become felons. Continue reading
Voices Carry
Last week, I took a train from North Podunksburg (where I live and work) to Metropolis (the nearest large conurbation) to attend several days of business meetings there. I was riding with some of my colleagues, and after the conversation had died down and people were looking out the windows, I turned on my mp3 player and zoned out.
You know that moment when you wake from a reverie and you remember where you are, when you realize that you are in one place and not in another? Well, I had a post 9/11 moment, a quick reminder that I wear a turban, “sport” a beard, am graced by almond skin … and that these things mean something different now than they once used to.
I was humming along under my breath, then mouthing the lyrics, then singing along quietly. A Billy Bragg song was on, and these were the words I heard in my ears:
Revenge will bring cold comfort in this darkest hour
As the juke box says ‘It’s All Over Now’
And he stands and he screams
What have I done wrong
I’ve fallen in love with a little time bomb [Link] [Audio: wmv, real]
I had sung, softly and under my breath, but perhaps audible “I’ve fallen in love with a little …” and then I tried hard to swallow the next few words, but I ended up mouthing “… time bomb.” It was my own personal Clash moment, except that the song I was singing had lyrics far worse than “…war is declared and battle come down…”
My Super (Simple) Sweet 16
For my 16th birthday, we had a sheet cake from Sam’s Club, and maybe a couple of balloons. It was small with just family, and a few of my school friends. It wasn’t elaborate, but in those days, we didn’t have MTV to show us how ‘the others’ celebrate their Sweet 16. Maybe that’s why I have a sick, sick obsession with watching MTV’s reality TV show Sweet 16, where in the span of a half an hour segment you see thousands and thousands of dollars being thrown down for a measly birthday. From the SM news tab, we’ve now learned desi teen girls haven’t missed the wrath of this reality TV show either.
…Dr. Srinivasa Rao Kothapalli, a prominent cardiologist in Beaumont, Tex., is more than willing to relinquish his checkbook. His daughter Priya turned 16 earlier this month, and she is in the throes of planning a joint birthday-graduation party with her elder sister, Divya, 18. “If you can afford to have a grand celebration, then why not,” said Dr. Kothapalli, who immigrated to the United States from India in the mid-1980’s. “It’s the American way. You work hard and you play hard.”Their Bollywood-themed party for 500 guests will be held in the family’s backyard — all 4Å“ acres, behind the 10,000-square-foot house. The Format, their favorite band, will perform. And they will make their grand entrance on litters, during an elaborate procession led by elephants…”We both want to lose three pounds,” said Priya, who received a Mercedes convertible and an assortment of diamond jewelry for her birthday. Her sister’s graduation gift package included a Bentley, diamonds and two homes in India. [link]
Can you believe this ridiculous consumption? Elephants, diamonds, Bentleys and homes? If this is what they got for their Sweet 16/18, can you imagine the weddings? I can’t wait till the show airs, which unfortunately, has no links up yet on MTV-but I’m sure the mutineers will keep us posted. So let’s see, there were first those two desi girls that secretly partied, Kaavya gets half a million to write a ‘plagiarized’ book before turning 17, and now, we have these girls. Sigh. Such a contrast from the girls, girls, girls earlier this month.
Priya added, “It’s pathetic when people suck up.” Still, dealing with sycophantic classmates and a bit of teasing is a small price to pay for the spotlight. “We both love attention–that’s one of our main motives for having the party,” Divya said. “The more attention the better.” [link]
At least I have something in common with the girls from Sweet 16…I’m kidding. KIDDING. 
Kaavya is Innocent, Until Proven Otherwise
Dear Kaavya,
This is your Akka writing. The fact that you have never met me is immaterial; we are brown and we don’t live in the land our parents were born in—that alone means that you probably have relatives you’ve never met, just like I do, so Akka it easily is.
Paavum Kaavya (letÂ’s call you PK for short), there is something I want you to know, but before I disclose that, I have to admit a fault of which I am rather ashamed, a fault which I hope youÂ’ll forgive your imperfect Akka for.
I was jealous of you.
Just a bissel, but it was enough to make me loathe myself for a few minutes. Green looks fabulous on me, but envy surely does not flatter. Wait, don’t frown—I promise that once I was aware that I was being a twat, I earnestly called myself out on it and owned my jealousy. Long before I admitted that my “unlikely-fantasy-if-wishes-came-true” job was acting, I cherished what to me seemed an even more far-fetched aspiration: to write. Getting a book deal seemed like the greatest thing which could possibly happen to someone. To get paid to write? Wow. And that you did, with a stunning advance, which everyone bandies about ad nauseum, since it makes your “fall” all the more violent.
Sigh. How I wished that my parents had been savvy enough to enroll me in an Ivy-League-Prep-Camp-Thing. Where my counselor, who just happened to be a published author, would discover me as if I were some naïve starlet in a ‘40s era soda shop and then pluck me out of the sweaty, freaked-out ranks of cloned overachievers and marvel at my genuine uniqueness. My parents made me turn down Columbia for U.C. Davis. My parents are SO not your parents. Your parents gave you everything, including an inadvertent star-making opp that made me want to howl. You’re nearly half my age. It’s like watching your little sister get married before you do. It’s a little humiliating to endure, in this obsessed with chronological-milestones culture we share.
So, whenever this group blog of mine did a post about you, I’d look down and notice that my skin suddenly looked wayyy more olive than usual. Then I’d take a deep breath and tell myself that you deserved it. That you had hustled for it, working on your writing when in comparison, 17-year old me probably would’ve been brooding over which Smiths or Ultravox LP to spin next. My skin would go back to the shade my mother calls “irrantharam” and I’d exhale with relief. It felt good to be silently proud of you.
Here’s the thing my little PK: I still am. And I’m a little appalled at how many people are crowing elatedly about your alleged toppling. The first thing I thought of when I read the “Crimson” writing on the blog was that tragically accurate, snarktastic story about the pet shop with international crabs. You’re looking at me blankly. I’m sure you haven’t slept. Tut-tut. That won’t do. You know brown girls are predisposed to developing those nasty under eye circles. Take a benadryl, bachi. Your skin and, well, everything will thank you. Hell, take a nap right now. I’ll dispel your probably non-existent curiosity about crabs for you, like a wee bedtime story.
Love Affair With Vik’s
I love Vik’s. Every time I go to the Bay area, I always make it a point to visit Vik’s. And as I go through my life here in Los Angeles, I pray for the day that Vik’s will show up in my neighborhood. Chances are if you are even minutely familiar with the Bay area, you know exactly where I’m talking about. The SF Chronicle just did a piece trying to figure out what makes Vik’s so great (thanks, maisnon).
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Dhokla |
From its beginnings in 1989 as a bare counter with just a few chairs at the front of the store, Vik’s Chaat Corner now fills an entire warehouse, and on a typical Saturday will serve more than 1,200 customers.”Our food is craving food for Indians,” says Amod Chopra, Vinod and Indira’s 35-year-old son, who helps run the business. “You don’t crave naan or tandoori chicken. You want to eat the zippy, zesty food.”Chaat combine various textures and flavors — crunchy, crisp and soft, spicy, tangy, fresh and sour. Crackers and dumplings, made from lentils, chickpeas or potatoes, act as vessels for a stunning variety of chutneys — mint, cilantro, coconut and tamarind… Chaat means “to lick” in HindiChaat means “to lick” in Hindi, a result of the fact that chaat originally were served on banana leaves, leaving customers to lick each leaf clean. Nowadays in India, people go out for chaat like Americans do for coffee.[link]
I remember growing up what a sucker I was for the pani puri. When I was visiting Bangladesh, I was told that my sensitive stomach would not be able to withstand the water and spices of the chaat stand. Of course I would sneak out and have some anyways, and suffer through the tummy pains after. Now, you can buy all the chaat ingredients in bags and boxes at your local Indian grocery store. But let me tell you, eating pani puri at your kitchen table is simply not the same as eating it on a street corner with sticky fingers. Vik’s, though not a street corner, has the same chaat house style appeal.
As if thinking about how yummy chaat is doesn’t make your mouth water enough, check out Vik’s online menu. Dahi Papdi Chaar, Sev Puri, and Pav Bhaji, they have it all. Continue reading
The narcissist principle
I recently checked out How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life at Crossword, a Barnes & Noble-like Indian chain with Barista-style upstairs cafés. The book is chick lit for teens, and the Indian cover interprets that so literally it shows a girl carrying both strappy heels and a stack of textbooks.
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UK/India cover |
The cover model for the UK/India edition could be desi, but her look is more toward the white end of the spectrum. Nor is Opal a common desi name. If I recall correctly (and I may be wrong — will double-check), there’s no mention of Mehta’s desi origins on the cover or in the official blurb (though the blurb for industry buyers is more accurate). Her desi-ness has been excised as neatly as was the turbaned actor from the Life Aquatic poster. To a casual browser it would almost certainly seem that Opal Mehta was just another white character, albeit with a funny last name.
I’m of two minds about this. In one sense it’s wonderful and somewhat subversive to have a desi character where her ethnicity isn’t made an issue. But in this story, surely Mehta’s upper-middle-class, post-’65 desi American-ness is a key reason why her parents are obsessive about her academic life. The plot summary reads like a parody of Asian American parental pushiness. That she’s desi seems integral to the plot.
Not that this is the author’s fault. New authors have famously little say over the trade dress of the product, though later Rushdie books have conspicuously avoided sari covers. (One of the worst: a hardcover of former BBC India correspondent Mark Tully’s book The Heart of India; it has that overbroad title, a garish, hot pink cover, a woman in a sari and a border smothered in garlands.)
Sepia Destiny
Ever since I got my nano, I have been obsessed with downloading podcasts. Since there isn’t a Sepia Mutiny podcast for me to download (ahem) I do the next best thing and listen to a Desi Dilemma, a podcast by a woman named Smitha Radhakrishnan. This week’s series on ‘Desi Love’ perked my ear up- seeing as how the search for a ‘suitable mate’ is always at the forefront topic for most mutineers (or so it seems).
“There was a clear message from the Indian community about dating, that it was somehow inextricably linked with the most dangerous, scary thing that could befall an ABCD kid; an identity crisis.”
As has been mentioned before on this blog, as an ABCD youth one often had to deal with the projection by your peers that the only people you were expected to date is that one other desi in the school, even though you had nothing in common with them. Forget the fact that you weren’t allowed to date; if you had been, there was no one there for you to date, in the often confusing bi-cultural high school years. For me, this reminds me of senior prom. And prom reminds me of how my mother wouldn’t let me go to prom unless I went with my gay guy friend because only then would she know nothing would happen to me on prom night. How’s that for bi-cultural confusion?
One ring to rule them all
French feminists have begun agitating to ditch the title of ‘Mademoiselle’ (Miss) and call all women ‘Madame.’ A French organization called Les Chiennes de Garde (the Guard Dog Bitches) wrote:
“The option Madame/Mademoiselle means that a woman has to give an indication about her availability, in particular her sexual availability. A letterbox is not meant to be a dating agency…” [Link]
It’s similar to the shift to Ms. in the U.S.:
The use of Ms. as a title was conceived by Sheila Michaels in 1961… Michaels, who was illegitimate, and not adopted by her stepfather, had long grappled with finding a title which reflected her situation: not being owned by a father and not wishing to be owned by a husband… the title is now standard, especially in business — and where one may not know or find relevant the marital status of the woman so addressed. [Link]
One feminist has a novel reason for the shift:
Emmanuele Peyret, wrote in the newspaper Libération that “the insidious passage from Mademoiselle to Madame is so painful that we may as well begin by being called Madame straight away, in the cradle”. [Link]
I think that’s a fine idea. As you hold a naked, wailing baby upside down and give her the welcome whack, you can say, ‘Pardonnez-moi, madame.’ It’s the polite thing to do.
And why stop there? It is absolutely true that women bear the burden of being marked as property. In fact, the full burkha of devout Muslims angles for complete sexual control, but almost every culture has milder restraints: the bindi, the sindoor, the wedding ring.
I’m of a breed which dislikes wearing things on the skin. We live streamlined, unornamented and unscented. It’s not that I object to status markers, especially one so hard fought-for by women as the reciprocal, male wedding ring. It’s just that wearing rings bugs me.
But there are simple alternatives. 
By a happy coincidence, the Hindu color of auspiciousness is also the color of traffic lights; the red bindi is also the signal for Stop, She’s Taken. So give me a green bindi to signal Single. Or for my lapel, the slide latch from an airplane loo, set to Available.
Forget Ms., forget Madame, forget cell phone dating. To avoid crossed wires, all you need is one good sticker.
Related posts: The Gender Gap