Wedded Bliss, The Municipal Way

Standing in line at City Hall, flanked by two of my closest--and soon to be married--friends, Prachi and Sameer, it occurs to me that passing through security check on your wedding day is definitely unorthodox. Then again, so is riding the 6 train to the ceremony.

As a gruff officer demands ID, Sameer produces his passport from the clear plastic folder that's been tucked under his arm for the course of the morning. The officer does a double take after laying eyes on the hand-written portion of the very first page, not unusual for most Indian passports. "Where'd ya make this buddy?" he snorts. "At home?"

When we're finally shooed into the building, we wait in a dismal grey hallway. Next to us, a woman in a veil straightens the hem of her skirt, which I could've sworn I'd spotted at H&M last week. Her groom is nowhere in sight. Another couple paces restlessly, carrying a drooling baby with almond eyes. Everyone's clutching some sort of paperwork, eagerly waiting to hear their name being called by an attendant. That is, if they can hear it. With no functional overhead sound system, the soon-to-be husbands and wives rely on their listening skills and a screechy City Hall employee to make sure they're not skipped over.

It turns out that approximately $60 can buy you a New York state wedding license and ceremony. This is "marriage lite", I think to myself. Minus the bells and whistles, gushing guests and open bar, it's a grittier look at the world of happily ever after. Prachi lets out a gasp as a delicate young girl glides past us in a shimmering dress, somewhat out of place. Her skirt drags the floor, picking up the dust and dirt, and I shake my head in disappointment. "Oh well. she'll only wear it once, I guess," Prachi offers, somewhat relieved that she stuck to jeans for the occasion. As we wait our turn, I'm picturing what lies behind the door marked "chapel", only steps away from where we stand. Makeshift maids of honor? "Here Comes the Bride" on repeat? A half-eaten cake, sloppily consumed by everyone else who got married today?

Soon enough, however, I get to see for myself, as the three of us, bride, groom and witness, shuffle into the chapel. Contrary to what I had imagined, it's an empty room, occupied by a single podium and a hefty woman, wearing a clerk's uniform and a no-nonsense grimace. In the course of a few brisk minutes--about the time it usually takes me to wait in line at my neighborhood CVS--they are pronounced husband and wife. But before my friends can even begin to glance into each other's eyes to register (no pun intended) what's just taken place, they're interrupted by the agitated clerk. "NEXT!" she booms, in an authoritative holler, sending us scurrying. The scene is definitely more McDonald's than marriage bureau. An hour later, we relive the events over plates of greasy Chilli Paneer at 28th and Lex., peppered with hysterical laughter, after which I finally excuse myself, feeling positively third wheel.

It's been exactly a year since that December morning. Months later, Prachi and Sameer eventually had the wedding they deserved in Mumbai, complete with a pundit, ooh-ing relatives and an extensive dinner menu that was a far cry from the mediocre Indo-Chinese fare we'd picked at on Curry Hill. Though I couldn't attend, I found solace in the the fact that I'd been able to participate in the City Hall version, however matter-of-fact, but still a very cherished union. We'd forgotten a camera that morning, unable to record the ceremony's significance. Consider this entry a humble attempt to capture the day.

Happy anniversary, guys :)

Onwards & Upwards

For a few weeks now, the cafe-goers of Kobe have battled with some unsettling news--after a seven-year run, their favorite street-side haunt is shutting down. December 29th will mark the last business day for "Upwards," a breezy, self-proclaimed "New York Style" coffee shop, situated steps away from Kitano-cho, my city's claim-to-fame neighborhood. Since the cafe's inception in 2000, I've made regular visits for their foamy lattes and the infamous "CLT" sandwich (attention, carnivores: that's generous amounts of cheddar, lettuce, and tomato, crammed between slices of black-sesame bread, baked in-house) a hospitable gesture for the surge of vegetarians that frequent Upwards. Most memorable, perhaps, is their warm and chirpy wait staff, touting pseudonym name-tags...to add to the "New York" ambiance, maybe? Let's get real. We all know her name's not Holly. But we love her all the same.

To placate their devastated customers, until Upwards reincarnates itself, there's Naileys, run by the same owners, about a 10-minute walk away. I'll admit, I've always regarded the place as Upwards' slightly stuck-up older sister--far less accommodating and not half as pleasant, atmosphere-wise. Though the Naileys' tag line, if you can call it that, is kind of intriguing : "Fine Food, Good Times, Drinks, Espresso and Reindeer!" The last bit is a grammatically questionable tribute to a cane sculpture that sits smack-dab in the middle of the cafe.

Upwards' sudden demise (can someone translate this announcement for me?) allows me to address a larger issue, something that's boggled my mind for a very long time. For years, my family and I have remained puzzled at the fact that in Japan, good things tend to come to an end--fast. Allow me to treat you to a mini list of other fabulous products and establishments that have met with an untimely death, ala Upwards. Ahem.

1 : Haagen Daaz's Chocolate Macadamia Nut Flavor
Did this even come out in the States? I can't remember. All I know was it was a heavenly combination of crunchy and smooth, rudely discontinued after a mere 12 months. Harrumph. Despite my poor father's many trips to a slew of far-flung Lawson's and Family Marts across the city, he eventually accepted that the flavor had vanished forever.

2: The USV Rental Store
Our sacred neighborhood video place, stocked with a respectable range of American movies, TV series' and even the sporadic indy flick. A tasteful oasis in a country where the main theaters offer an average of two haphazardly selected Hollywood choices a week--if you're lucky. USV's lifeline was at least seven years, but came to an abrupt halt when I was back from college during the summer of my sophomore year. Good-bye, Sex and the City marathons...hello, Shrek 3 at the tiny multiplex.

3: One Portion
Birthday dinner central, as I remember it. This super affordable Italian(ish) joint was a one-man-show, where the MacGyveresque chef whipped up an extensive list of items including a mean mushroom sauce pasta, a cheezy naan pizza and what I still consider the best corn soup in Kansai, all enjoyed against the backdrop of slushy 80's pop. Closed circa 2002--cause of death? Unknown.

The culturally sensitive side of me can't help but attribute the premature ends of these fine products and establishments to a philosophy that's guided and shaped much of Japanese society for centuries--mono no aware, which literally means "the pathos of things," a phrase coined by Motoori Norinaga, a 17th century literary scholar. To simplify a loaded set of three words, they hint at the transient nature of life, a concept that's particularly valued in Japan.

So perhaps it was fitting, then, that while my younger sister and I noisily whined and lamented at what just might have been our last couple of drinks at Upwards last night, the rest of the customers seemed perfectly at ease while sipping their coffees. Like us, they were well aware that four days later, Upwards would be no more. Unlike us, however, they've gracefully accepted change and embraced impermanence. It's high time we did the same.

Of Fairy Tales and Flashbacks

On an especially frosty November evening, I'm awaiting the sluggish arrival of an N train at Queensboro Plaza. I was informed earlier that day that the magazine internship I had acquired, months ago, was most probably never going to turn into a full-time gig, and unless I wanted to continue with this warped form of servitude, I was going to have plunge headfirst into the job search--yet again.

My fingers are icicles as they fish for my iPod, buried under the depths of an overstuffed tote. As I cram the headphones into my ears--or whatever I can feel of them, at least--an energetic guitar riff precedes the vocal stylings of Colin Meloy, front man for one of my favorite wintertime bands, The Decemberists , as he croons "The Crane Wife," which also happens to be the title of their 2006 album.

The sound of the relentless city wind intermingles with Meloy's haunting voice, but I'm certain there's something familiar about the words he's singing. Though I can't quite pinpoint it, I feel an almost visceral connection to the tragic story of The Crane Wife, "all clothed in a snowy shroud."

It's only when I'm snuggled on my couch later that night, Googling furiously, that I can confirm "The Crane Wife" was actually inspired by an ancient, Japanese fairy tale, "Tsuru no Ongaeshi". Roughly translated, apparently that's--are ya ready?--The Crane's Repayment for Kindness Received. (I'd love to re-tell it but I'd be teetering super close to an ugly little thing called plagiarism, so I encourage you to read this. Apologies in advance for the cheezy koto-wannabe music that accompanies the virtual slideshow. I'd just skip the volume, if I were you)

Well that explains it, I muse. I'm no stranger to the story, thanks to my childhood baby-sitter, Okada-san, who told and re-told it on the nights I feigned insomnia, knowing that my dreams, however vibrant, would be no match for her intricately woven fairy tales. Despite being treated to snippets from The Ramayan and The Mahabharat, which my grandmother patiently shared, I secretly lived for the nights that Okada-san would tuck me in. Though the accounts of Ram and Krishna were, undoubtedly, action-packed, forever tinged with a sensible, moral message, I craved the silvery, fantastical nature of their Japanese counterparts. My favorites ranged from Kaguya-Hime, the story of a magical little girl found living in the midst of a bamboo stalk to Urashima-Taro, a back to the futuresque account of a valiant fisherman who rescues a turtle, only to be rewarded with a trip to an underwater kingdom.

I'd like to think that those evenings with Okada-san were what fomented my fixation on all things fiction. A scratchy voice, musky scent and an endless supply of jewel-tinted gummies, wrapped in edible rice paper, are all I can remember of her. Her stories, though, make up a treasure-trove that I reach in to from time to time, when I lack inspiration, optimism and even drive. Which pretty much sums up where I'm at, standing on an almost-empty platform, feeling unnecessarily sorry for myself. And now, thanks to Meloy and his awesome band, my worlds have collided into one magnificent song. On a whim, I put "The Crane Wife" on repeat, rub my hands together, take a deep breath and squint ahead, thanks to the glowing light of a train, slowly but surely, approaching my direction.

Innocents Abroad

I'm a firm believer in the fact that the Japanese invented the concept of paying it forward, and last night's activities only confirmed that thought.

There we were, four gaijins, strolling the luminous, candy-colored streets of Osaka, doing our best not to wander into one of the swanky "Snack" Lounges. And by snack lounge, obviously, I mean bars where clients dish out an exorbitant sum to be fawned over by giggly hostesses in outdated prom dresses. We eventually sought refuge in a legit-looking wine bar. A few Rieslings later, we struck up conversation with our amiable waitress--who was not in a prom dress, mind you--asking her if she could recommend a reasonable okonomiyaki joint in the area.

After a couple of thoughtful "mmm's," she disappeared, only to return almost immediately, producing a carefully drawn map, with a detailed depiction of the bar, in relation to the closest train station--tracks and all--and the restaurant she had in mind. I should clarify that it was on the same street, a mere two lights down. She continued to stun us with her helpfulness, as she proceeded to walk us out of the bar, and straight to Miyao, a crowded hole-in-the-wall, where the chefs whipped up tofu steak, kimchi-flavored soba, and of course, sumptuous mounds of okonomiyaki. Over a delicious dinner, among other things, my friends and I marveled at our luck. If it hadn't been for our wine bar waitress, we would have most likely skipped over this hidden gem, and settled for a slice of good old corn pizza instead (hold the corn, thanks). But the food's not the point, really. I'm almost certain that tons of others who have either visited or lived in Japan have a similar anecdote or two. While a succinct "go straight down the block" would have sufficed, we were, instead, carefully hand-delivered to our destination.

One of my friends, Ivan, particularly taken by what had just happened, boldly declared that upon getting home to New York next year, he'd start the practice there. "The next time someone asks me where South Street Sea Port is, I'll say, 'hey, let me take you there'," he announced, chuckling. On first thought, his attempts at inserting a little Japan into the NYC landscape may seem futile. But I'm staying optimistic (and maybe bordering on idealistic, at this point).

Here's to hoping he's serious.

The Obligatory "About Me"

I realize I should have done this back when I started writing , and even though nobody's asked yet, I'm going to jump the gun and offer a few words on the blog title, if I may...I hope someone cares. Otherwise this is really just a waste of perfectly good cyberspace where I could be blogging about something really important, like Ranbir Kapoor's butt in Saawariya.

ANYWAY.

Back in my college lit classes* we zoned in on Meena Alexander, a writer and poet who once paralleled the idea of a decentralized identity** to that of sitting in an airport transit lounge, for life. I quite liked the analogy, and it stayed with me and actually helped make sense out of the emotional train-wreck that is post-graduation. Just one month after a poorly prepped professor had congratulated me, "Eritrea Juh-very-a" (so much for phonetically spelling out my name on a note-card), on a crowded podium, I found myself at a small arts-oriented non-profit in New York City. The director whimsically drifted in and out at her convenience, leaving me all alone to perform the mundane duties of an administrative assistant. I think the third consecutive week of not talking to anybody for 7 hours a day, unless you count the Staples customer service dude, finally got to me, and I contemplated going home to Japan, knowing that my chances of returning to the US upon the death of my student visa would be absolutely abysmal.

I constantly compared New York to my home city of Kobe--the trains were far filthier, people didn't bow nearly as enough, let alone say hello, and the sushi? Don't even get me started. I was homesick, underpaid and, as one of my best friends Jess Simon says, "transitional": a really grim combination. But somehow, like the thousands of other '06 graduates, I trudged along, allowed myself to fall in love with the city of all cities, found a small but special studio in Astoria, Queens, and stuck it out for a while.

Approximately a year later, I was saying a very reluctant goodbye to a city that had gotten under my skin and a cluster of people who had become close to family. Thanks to an unsuccessful battle with the immigration gods, the wish I had hastily made last summer, and reversed a few months later, was, in fact, coming true. I was going home. It's been six months, and I'm headed back again for grad school in a few weeks. Needless to say I'm nervous. What does this have to do with Ms. Alexander, you ask? For half a year now, the channel in my brain's been tuned to all things Japanese. I beat around the bush (politely) to get a point across, I know to take my shoes off before walking into someone's home and don't bat an eyelid at a vending machine full of beer. Come January, it'll be time to change the culture channel, as I make my way back, with some trepidation, to New York. It's only recently I've accepted that my life, like Alexander's, and possibly scores of others caught in the delightfully messy web of globalization, will always be in flux. Which, I hope, explains the blog so far. Watching the Cosby Show in Bombay, spotlighting the controversial H-4 visa, and being enamored by an up-and-coming funk band that sings about illegal alien ancestry may seem like scattered anecdotes, but to me, they are all consistent with being in transit.

Keep reading :)

*when it was all "identity, identity, identity"
**told ya.

Unauthorized : Director Meghna Damani on the H4 Visa

"These are people who are being brought in [to the United States]only in the most basic functions of women: housewives, baby makers and sex partners" -Shivali Shah, Immigration Advocate & Attorney, in "Hearts Suspended"-

In her debut film, director Meghna Damani ironically states that independence was the first thing she lost when she entered the land of the free. Her documentary, "Hearts Suspended" seems like a humble but admirable effort to decode the mystifying "H4" or "Dependant" visa, a sometimes paralyzing status acquired by thousands of women who come to the US alongside their H1 husbands. Unable to work till they are sponsored <--a process that employers are becoming increasingly reluctant to participate in--these dependents, often highly educated, remain jobless for vast stretches of time (5 years for some, according to Damani's doc.), undergoing identity crises while they attempt to make sense of the stifling game of immigration limbo. As a film that's bolstered by testimonials, interviews with immigration experts and partly autobiographical, "Hearts Suspended" gets some serious props for shedding light on a topic that's so conveniently overlooked, even when "immigration" seems to be such a hot-button issue. Can't wait to see the whole thing!

Check out the preview : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRrUYn8stfs&feature=related

Aunty Socialism. Or, "Why is My Mom on Facebook?"

As an avid observer of the burgeoning aunty community in Kobe, Japan (aka, aunty capital of the Far East. Didn't think there were Indians in Japan? Oh boy. Do we have a long way to go. I'm saving that for another entry.) I can attest to the fact that these fierce forty and fifty-somethings, contrary to what their sweet, sari-clad exteriors may suggest, mean serious business.

As a child, they were merely high-pitched hello's on the phone, quizzing me on whether I recognized their voices, one "kemcho" virtually indistinguishable from the other. Their presence was particularly memorable during my high school years, when their kohl-rimmed lashes eyeballed my every move, itching to see me mess up so they could serve the story up right next to their piping hot parathas at the next lunch party. i.e.: "Did you see [fill in the blank]'s daughter, walking home with that...*insert ominous pause*...BOY in the middle of the night? And her skirt? I tell you, these international schools, god knows what they're teaching our kids. And if they're doing this now,I just shudder to think of what they'll do in*insert a longer, ominous pause* America. Her poor mother. But really, that's none of our business. Here, have some achaar. Arre, have, have."

Eventually, college happened and I was relieved to know of an auntyless existence, blissful, relaxed and free to er, "walk home" with anyone I wanted to. For the last few months, though, I've sensed their presence, slowly slithering its way back into my life...ironically enough, as technology fine-tunes itself, so does an aunty's stakeout method. Enter Facebook. Little did Mark Zuckerberg know that his billion-dollar cyber baby would strike a chord with a cluster of inquisitive Indian housewives in Japan. While some are seeing it as an opportunity to scope out potential brides for their eligible twenty-somethings others check in on their unruly teenagers, following a trail of scandalous wall posts. It's the final frontier of snooping, and the end of a precious little thing called personal space. For all you panic-stricken kiddies out there, struggling to hold on to your platform of privacy, two words : Limited Profile. And if your mom tries to add you, for god's sake, reject the request.