Category Archives: Arts and Entertainment

Halal in the Family

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sonsacrifice.jpgA Son’s Sacrifice is a 27-minute documentary about a halal slaughterhouse in Ozone Park, Queens, run by a Bangladeshi immigrant and his son, Riaz and Imran Uddin; the film, by Israeli-American Yoni Brook and Kashmiri-American Musa Syeed, who met while studying at NYU Film School, has just won Best Documentary Short at the 2007 Tribeca Film Festival. Beyond the clear Ibrahim/Abrahamic allusion, the title refers to son Imran’s decision, at age 27 and holding a degree in communications from Clark University, to return to Queens and take over the family business. From an article in the Queens Times-Ledger:

The film is not just about a live meat market, according to its makers. It is a metaphor for the immigrant experience. Brook described the proliferation of live markets in and around New York City as an act of defiance against assimilation. It is an opportunity for immigrants to allow their American-born progeny to experience directly the culture of home by witnessing halal ritual slaughter.

I don’t know that I’d call that “defiance against assimilation” — it might just be evidence of a different kind of assimilation or, since the whole idea of “assimilation” is both so imprecise and so loaded, maybe we should just be talking about the constant process of formation of metropolitan culture in the era of globalization. In any event, the film earned an item in yesterday’s New York Times, in which the reporter visits the slaughterhouse: Continue reading →

“Americanizing Shelley”

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“When circumstances throw an American country boy and a Himalayan village belle together, the ‘apple pie’ gets a smattering of ‘masala,’ only to prove that ‘You Can’t Curry Love!'”

That’s from the official synopsis of a film called Americanizing Shelley that’s being released this weekend. It’s a production of something called American Pride Films, and stars Namrata Singh Gujral. It had its premiere at the Nashville Film Festival (wonderfully known as NAFF) a couple of weeks ago. Here’s the trailer:

In the video post here, Michelle Malkin endorses the film, describing a scene that is “highly unpopular in HollyWeird” and says that “for once, it will be worth shelling out the big bucks… to support a movie that supports America.” According to this website, the film is “riling the hate-America brigade.” It interviews Singh Gujral, who says she’s “not a political person,” although as Vinod noted here two years ago, she’s certainly been, er, honored in a political setting. As for the early reviews, the LA Weekly calls the film “minor but sweet,” while the Washington Post dismisses it for “embarrassingly low-rent production values.” Finally, although the film appears made for the mainstream U.S. commercial market, Variety opines that “screenwriter and star Namrata Singh Gujral will probably find her most appreciative aud among young Indian moviegoers who want something outside the arthouse.” Your thoughts? Continue reading →

Taking “Looting” to A Whole New Level: Vaman Ghiya

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There’s the makings of a nice suspense novel in a recent New Yorker piece on one of India’s greatest — and most evil — contemporary antiquities smugglers, Vaman Narayan Ghiya. Ghiya operated a transnational smuggling network out of Jaipur, which included three Swiss shell companies that bought and sold smuggled vast quantities of Indian antiquities, ultimately so the priceless works could be acquired by London auction houses — and “legally” sold at Sotheby’s and Christie’s.

Ghiya, who was extremely cautious in his business operations, was brought down by a dedicated police officer, Anand Shrivastava, who essentially dedicated years to learning about the workings of the international antiquities market in order to better understand the criminal side of it. Almost miraculously, Ghiya wasn’t able to bribe his way out of prison, nor was bail allowed in his case — and his case is currently in process. Just to give you a sense of scale, here’s what the police found when they raided Ghiya’s house and his various warehouses:

Then Superintendent Shrivastava and his men searched the house, spending hours rummaging through the elegant rooms. Behind the wood panelling of Ghiya’s private study, the officers discovered a set of secret cupboards, which held hundreds of photographs of ancient Indian sculptures: graceful stone figures of the deities Vishnu, Shiva, and Parvati and Parvati’s elephant-headed son, Ganesha; Jain Tirthankaras and Chola bronzes; dancing goddesses with many arms and melon breasts, festooned with delicately rendered ornaments. The photographs were color snapshots, and the objects pictured sat outdoors, in patches of grass or mud. Many evidently had been roughly pried away from temple walls and were missing limbs or heads. The police also discovered sixty-eight glossy auction catalogues from Sotheby’s and Christie’s in London and New York.

This stash seemed to confirm Shrivastava’s suspicion that Vaman Ghiya operated one of the most extensive and sophisticated clandestine antiquities rings in history, and that he had grown rich in the past three decades by smuggling thousands of Indian antiques to auction houses and private collectors in the West. The police found no sculptures in Ghiya’s home. But, in the days that followed, Shrivastava’s men raided half a dozen properties that Ghiya owned around Jaipur, his farm outside the city, and various godowns, or storage facilities, in Mathura and Delhi. They discovered antique paintings, swords and shields, marble panels, stone pillars, three hundred and forty-eight pieces of sculpture, and a dismantled Mogul pavilion the size of a small house. (link)

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Spiderman 3, Officially Released in Bhojpuri

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Ravi Kishan, Voice of Spidey

Though Hollywood films currently only take a modest slice of the Indian film market, Hollywood studios are working harder than ever to “colonize” Indian film audiences. The latest strategy is to move past Hindi dubbing — and release films dubbed in regional languages as well as Hindi. This is the fruition of a long process of evolution, beginning with the “unofficial” dubs back in the day. Then, as more Hollywood films were being released in India, blockbuster films started getting officially dubbed — the peak of which might have been last year’s hugely successful Hindi version of Night at the Museum (Museum Ke Andar Phans Gaya Sikander, which is actually much catchier than the non-rhyming western title). And the Hindi release of The Incredibles also made waves a couple of years ago, when it was announced that the “dad” character’s voice was going to be dubbed by Shah Rukh Khan. Now, Spiderman 3 is getting the official dubbing treatment — in Bhojpuri. The Bhojpuri film industry is the fastest growing segment of India’s different, language-based film markets. Last year, 76 Bhojpuri films were released, which is still less than other languages (245 Telugu films; 225 Hindi films), but with a captive audience of 100 million+ Bhojpuri speakers in UP and Bihar, the fan base is vast. Here Spidey’s voice is being dubbed by Ravi Kishan (pictured right), a “Bhojywood” superstar responsible for hits like Panditji Batayie Mera Byah Kab Hoi. The budget for the dubbing alone was $250,000 (Rs. 1 Crore), which is about three times the entire budget for a regular Bhojpuri film, and Ravi Kishan says he spent 12 days doing it (on his normal films, he normally does all vocal dubbing in a single day). Kishan seems to have a sense of humor about his dubbing work:
“No, this isn’t a nightmare. I’m dubbing for ‘Spiderman’ in Bhojpuri.”

The last such film from Hollywood to be dubbed in India by a star was “The Incredibles” in which Shah Rukh Khan gave voice to the main character.

“Well they don’t call me the Shah Rukh of Bhojpuri cinema for nothing. I’m doing this because I wanted my Bhojpuri fans to enjoy ‘Spiderman’ in the voice that they love – mine!

“Wait till they hear me saying ‘Hum makad manav hain, ud kar aayab aur tohar tetuwa dabaa deb’ (I’m Spiderman, I’ll fly to you and throttle you).” (link)
Well, at least he’s not shy about it. Continue reading →

Paging Mango Pickle…I Need Mango Pickle.

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[NB: Men, small children and intellectuals- pretend to look elsewhere and feign a lack of interest, even though I know you’re going to read every esoteric word.]

Well-maintained humans, I have a problem.

I hate my tweezers.

I have every right to, they came in one of those awful pre-filled manicure kits that no one deserves to receive for Chrismukkah, no matter how evil they’ve been. I have been able to “get by” because I only used them once in a while. That’s why I never really noticed how worthless they are. How is this possible, you wonder incredulously? I have a shameful secret which is so hideous, none dare to believe it once it is revealed.

I have no eyebrows.

No, I didn’t over-tweeze like we all did when we were eleven. I didn’t lose them in an unfortunate smelting accident, nor did I singe them off while learning how to use that stove thingy with the…fire…and stuff. Uh-huh, I was born with no eyebrows, courtesy of my dear Father’s genetics, though considering everything else he gave me, I guess I’d be an ungrateful little shit if I dwell on this for too long.

My father had sparse eyebrows but he also started to grey at 30, so by the time I could even notice his brows, he was in his early 40s. Bare as they were, white hair on dark brown skin is ultra-obvious, so he wasn’t affected by his browlessness. I on the other hand, have had my chin grabbed and my face ruthlessly examined by Auntie after Auntie, who if I’m lucky, muttered something about how I once looked a bit like Hema Malini before I got all black and if I’m REALLY lucky…well, they declare something about how a face is useless unless the eyes are beautiful and the eyes, they are the worthless as the Manolo would say, without the brows. “Sho! Kashtam. No wonder you aren’t married.”

So I haven’t had to use tweezers all that much and whenever I did, I’d just borrow my Mom’s because hers worked. But now…I don’t know if mine have gone dull or if my hand-eye coordination is poo; they don’t grip a thing. I just can’t see the point of getting my brows “done”, not when they barely grow in the first place. In the picture you see above, which was taken during the only trip to Devon Avenue I’ve ever made, I got threaded.

Why? I was caught up in the brownosity of it all; Devon Avenue seemed way more desi than University Avenue, though it wasn’t quite Jackson Heights. After buying a new sari and bangles, eating fantastic chaat and drinking far too much good stuff, I wanted to experience the only part of the street I hadn’t thus far– the beauty parlors. Much like the first time my awe-stricken kundi trudged through Queens, I was amazed at the fact that there were salons that were staffed with and served just desis; as a righteous and deprived thenga, I found such a concept inconceivable.

So, in I went and when I requested getting my brows threaded, the woman pointedly asked, “Why?”. “Please,” I implored “I have to go to an engagement in two hours!” and she shrugged. After all, an idiot and her rupees are soon threaded. And a few seconds after this shot was taken, she stood back and announced, “done!”

I had felt a little something and noticed no discernable difference, but I was tickled anyway. Threaded! I got threaded! I finally, fleetingly felt at one with the South Asian “experience”.

So, unless it’s an adventure in beauty like that was, I’m not getting my brows done and that is why I need new tweezers. Now quit holding out on me– what do YOU use? Share your wisdom, so that other clueless fur balls will find it when they google this embarrassing topic in the years to come. 😉 Continue reading →

Do you know the importance of a skypager?

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Hurry up and get yours cuz I got mine.jpg

I know I should probably save this for either Sunday or Monday, when you are all hung over, exhausted, grumpy or all of the above, but I am in a playful mood and can’t resist.

According to an Anonymous Tipster on our news tab, picture number four in Fortune magazine‘s online exhibit of photographs which starred in an offline exhibit in Manhattan entitled, “Fortune Celebrates India” is “awesome”. I wholeheartedly concur with that sentiment; I couldn’t stop smiling after seeing the image to the left. What a fantastic capture!

These pictures got some well-deserved (especially in this case) attention in preparation for the 10th Fortune Global Forum, which will be held in New Delhi later this fall. But none of this matters, because you are all well aware of why I have posted this picture. Wot? You have no idea? Of course you do! That’s right ladkas and ladkis…it’s time to play the “caption” game.

While the two desis in this photo aren’t as glamorous as Karan Johar and Preity Zinta, the stars of our last episode, I find them infinitely more interesting. 🙂

How ’bout you? Leave your impressions of what’s going on in the comments below. If you’d rather see the rest of the photographs in the exhibit– I believe there are almost two dozen– click here. And if you want to suggest pictures for future editions of the caption game, then click here. And if you want further relief from ennui, deadlines or constipation…well, I have nothing for you to click (thanggawd!). Continue reading →

Miracle of science or antiseptic travesty?

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Growing up, I never understood why some people found it necessary to use a bagel guillotine. It’s easy enough to cut a bagel with a sharp knife, and it avoids squishing the bagel the way a slicer does. Part of my rejection of the tool is probably New York Jewish snobbishness (coupled with fear that if I ever embraced such a shanda, I’d be required to return my virtual circumcision and fountain pen). But it also comes from a sense that using such tools makes the whole process of bagel eating less sensual and more antiseptic.

As such, I’m agnostic about the Oxo mango slicer until I actually get a chance to try one out for myself. On the one hand, if you watch the video below, you’ll see that it makes very quick work of a mango, turning it into two halves and the seed in no time flat. And honestly, I’m better at and more interested in mango eating than mango cutting.

On the other, I wonder if the tool exists because of the big deal that non-desis make about how messy mango eating is. I remember once somebody on the radio solemnly intoned “mangos should only be eaten naked and in the ocean.” My mother scoffed and replied “White people don’t know how to eat mangos, otherwise they wouldn’t make such a mess.” Sometimes I lose the fruit under all of the “exotic” subtext going on and I don’t know how much of this machine’s appeal lies in this myth of the messy, untamable mango.

Will any of you admit to having used a tool to (ahem) split the mango? If so, did it increase or decrease your pleasure?

Related Posts: Mmmmmmmangoes!, Flesh for Fantasy

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What’s the opposite of coconut?

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As an ABCD, I want things both ways. In the USA I want to be recognized as fully American; hyphenated American to be sure, but still just as American as any pink-skinned Mayflower descendent. This is especially true when I need consular support or when I am re-entering the country.

I once had an INS agent look at my face and tell me that the line for foreign nationals was elsewhere. When I showed her my passport, she proceeded to treat it as fraudulent and grilled me (improperly) until she was satisfied. Ironically, she was a Filipina with a thick accent herself.

But in India, I usually want to pass. I was really proud when a Delhite came up to me on the street and asked me for directions in Hindi. The only time I’ve been amused to hear “You speak English really well” was when it came from an Eastern European tourist at Fatehpur Sikri. [I ruined the illusion by responding “Thanks. I watch a lot of American television” whereupon he recognized the American sense of humor.]

Heck, last time I was in India, I passed too well. I was wearing a khaddar kurta and had my beard open and some guard at the Delhi domestic airport decided I was too pendu to belong and demanded that I produce my ticket. I responded in very American English that my ticket was with my “Daaaaad” (it was) and walked off, having asserted myself as an NRI.

Is Jamie a modak? A manju?

Straddling these two worlds is fairly easy and has gotten easier over time as urban India has come to resemble the urban west more and more. I can’t imagine doing the opposite journey however, being a white person who was born and raised in India, carries an Indian passport, and intends to spend the rest of their lives in India.

I mean, we don’t even have a word for the opposite of coconut. What would we call somebody who is white on the outside, but brown (and hairy) on the inside? A pickled egg? A rotten egg? What’s the correct term for somebody like Jamie Alter?

A day in the life of Jamie Alter is not easy. He takes the bus to office … and is stared at all the way. Teenagers snigger and point… But Jamie, son of actor Tom Alter, isn’t a tourist or long-term expat. He’s Indian and it says as much on his passport. Having grown up in Mumbai and Mussoorie, Jamie understands references to Chitrahaar, not American sitcoms. When he went to the US for his undergraduate degree, he thought he’d blend in. And he did — as far as appearances go. Until he realised his heart was in India. “I missed the chaos of Mumbai. I love cricket, not American culture. I came back because I’m happier here,” says the 25-year-old. [Link]

To me, the correct term for Jamie Alter is Indian. Continue reading →

Angry Little Asian Girl

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ALAG.jpg I love living in the middle of Washington, D.C. I love walking everywhere (only three miles to work!) and being able to run all my errands within minutes of my apartment, which is an extra fantastic place to live because the building manager is a sarcastic, blunt, eyeliner-and-nicotine-addicted mother hen of a woman who has me on lockdown (“Uh, no…of course I didn’t take some random young man upstairs, just because I’ve gone on seven dates with him!”) because she dotes on me more than my own Mother does. That kind of affection is priceless and it more than compensates for tiny kitchens or ancient bathrooms.

In the dark days of 2006, when I still lived in fArlington, I dreamed wistfully of such city living; I left Manhattan in 2002 and have never quite gotten over that loss. I haven’t felt the exhilarating, unstoppable happiness I am only able to experience when I overhear four languages on one city block, when cabs are plentiful 24/7 or when ambulances are screeching by at all hours, serenading me to sleep (when I visit my Mother at home in “quiet” NorCal, I sleep in the living room with the TV on because the silence is too eerie).

I was ecstatic when I found my new home (which I did thanks to one of you!) and I gleefully pictured myself walking down Connecticut Avenue to the metro every morning; I’d have a “drip” coffee in hand and I’d be beaming uncontrollably while humming the “These are the people in your neighborhood!”-song from Sesame Street as I “commuted” a whopping eight-minutes to work.

I love coffee. I have loved it since I was 18-months old. I am picky about it, as much as I am about everything else. That’s why I adore the fact that there is this little place which no one seems to be aware of, tucked away even while in plain view of one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city. I don’t know what kind of beans they use and I don’t care, their coffee is outstanding. The only thing which could possibly taste better is the elixir which my detail-obsessed Father used to make after freshly grinding beans every morning (gawd, I love engineers and the precision with which they seem to do everything).

I didn’t think I could feel such affection for a coffee place unless it was venerable Caffe Greco in North Beach, a joint which is the closest thing I will ever know to Cheers, since everybody knows (and shouts) my name when I walk in, even though I only go there once or twice a year now. But like Greco, my coffee-pushers now pour my drink the moment they see me through the window; it’s a beautiful way to start my day, to feel that seemingly inconsequential bit of recognition from the young man behind the counter who knows exactly how much space to leave in order to fulfill my ridonkulous addiction to half-and-half. He is Asian and if you’ve read this essay this far, I’ll reward you by telling you that he is the point of my entire post. Continue reading →

Skin deep

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Last week I was standing in a bookstore, looking for something trashy and utterly mindless to buy. I picked up Deborah Rodriguez’s “Kabul Beauty School: An American Woman Goes Behind the Veil.” and read the first chapter, which was around all I could handle.

I realize that I was far from the target audience for such a book. I’ve never had a haircut in my life, and I’ve never been to a spa. I’m not a very sympathetic audience for stories about how the women of Kabul felt better inside because they felt more glamorous outside (well, inside their burkas). Furthermore, I am a guy, and this was a tremendously girly book:

When Deborah Rodriguez arrived in Kabul in 2002 as part of a charitable aid mission, what she saw appalled her… It was a land of bad haircuts, poorly applied makeup and no styling gel. To Rodriguez, a Michigan hairdresser with a can-do attitude, task No. 1 was obvious: get these poor people some beauty salons. [Link]

Despite my lack of personal experience with the topic, I was willing to suspend disbelief and work with the book’s basic premise, namely:

…hairdressing … is one of the few truly viable options for would-be female Afghan entrepreneurs. There’s a huge demand for such services, as many Afghan women sport elaborate hair and makeup styles under their burqas. At the same time, it’s work that can be done entirely in female company – a necessity in a segregated society. [Link]

My problem was not the subject but the condescending tone of the book. It was “City of Joy” meets “Steel Magnolias,” the usual story of somebody in the first world who finds their calling “helping” people in the third world, where the only purpose of the poor and unfortunate is to serve as a backdrop to the protagonist’s journey.

For example, the opening chapter tells of “Roshanna,” a friend who had been raped and thus was no longer a virgin. Roshanna was terrified of her wedding night, when eager crowds await a bloody rag — the telltale sign of virginity.

Ms. Rodriguez sprung into action, whipping out nail clippers, cutting her finger, dripping blood on a handkerchief and instructing Roshanna to place it under a cushion. When the time came, she could swap it with another one. The next morning, she writes: “When I rush into the hallway, I see that Roshanna’s mother is wailing for joy. ‘Virgin!’ she shouts at me triumphantly, waving the handkerchief stained with my blood. ‘Virgin!’ “… [Link]

C’mon now. Afghan women have never figured out how to fool their husbands with chicken blood after thousands of years? It took a spunky hairdresser from Michigan with a can do attitude to come up with this? Roshanna’s mother didn’t help her, and was even fooled by the simple deception? As if!

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