Mission: Irresponsible

A few have commented on the absence of a Mumbai blog since the Nov 26th attacks. The truth is, I've been percolating. Splicing the personal from the political is never easy. Especially when each of the gutted, ravaged dots on the map of South Mumbai, when connected, compose family history.

Long before I was even a hazy figment of their imaginations, my parents spent many an afternoon at The Sea Lounge, a charming cafe on The Taj's first floor. To this day, they fondly recount these meetings, and if asked, my father might even be able to tell you what my mother ordered on their first date. Years later, as a toddler, I waddled, clumsily chasing wayward pigeons in Apollo Bunder near the Gateway of India (mere steps from where the terrorists first made their stealthy entrance, aided by inconspicuous dinghies) as my nanaji, or maternal grandfather, coaxed me to toss them fistfuls of grain. And more recently as a college student I practically begged my aunt and uncle to take me to the now gun-shot ridden Leopold's Cafe after thumbing through Shantaram, Gregory David Roberts picturesque ode to to the city. The stories are countless.

Now that all the blood has been shed, fingers pointed and tensions stirred, my dissatisfaction has more to do with the way those formally charged with telling the multiple stories--local journalists--handled their duties. These story-tellers had the power to be influential participants during this perilous siege, but to put it mildly, they blew it.

"We've forfeited the rights to our tragedies," exclaimed Arundhati Roy in a Guardian op-ed, soon after the siege. For as the hellish attacks unrelentingly gnawed at Mumbai, almost instantaneously, the world—the one defined by the slick, 24-hour-news channels, at least—tuned into what was christened, “India’s 9/11.” Throngs of hysterical reporters dominated TV screens, charged with spreading their interpretations of the saga both domestically and internationally, throughout the course of the attacks. In our Friedmanesquely flat world, however, hardly any global event is spared from the cable news bulldozer, threatening to compress nuanced conflicts into sentimentally charged sound bytes. Though the atrocities themselves were analyzed and dissected since that fateful November night, another highly consequential post-mortem is still underway—that of the media’s role and influence during this blaze of terror. The few critiques that are appearing though, come from the domestic front in the form of left-wing news web sites, controversial op-ed columnists and even local bloggers, who are stepping forth with their versions of the story, dissatisfied with the media’s highly sensationalist and frenzied coverage during the 60-hour siege.

When the Cold War paradigm for mainstream media was dismantled, in America at least, many wondered what the next dominant framework would be. It’s safe to say that “9/11 rhetoric” is the highly anticipated successor: “Fanatical Muslims replaced Soviet Communists and, like the reds, these enemies could be anywhere." In many ways, it's like President Bush merely pressed the re-start button on the Cold War talking points machine, and now, we see democracies across the world—like India—doing the same. As an ever-present tool, the rhetoric surrounding the war on terror is appealing, just as the Cold War was, lacking an exit strategy, with no tangible end in sight.

Though the mainstream media is ideally, supposed to function as the watchdog of any democratic government, the infiltration of corporatism is slowly hacking away at this idealized notion. As witnessed in the case of a relatively established democracy, like India, in light of the Mumbai crisis, the mainstream media acted as an extension of the government’s interests, whether it came in the form of an almost a knee-jerk desire to point fingers at Pakistan (although ultimately, a connection was revealed) or cloaking over the complexities of the conflict with a highly simplistic, 9/11-inspired, “good versus evil” script.

As traditional media no longer mirrors the democratic values that were once bestowed on it, it becomes crucial to turn to a sphere that is more congruous with ideas like diversity of opinion, accuracy and transparency. Cyberspace, in many ways—with the appropriate gatekeepers, of course—is the ultimate embodiment of that democratic space. In the case of Mumbai, we saw that space timidly but articulately speak for the city, following the November siege. Like anything democratic, however, it will be support, in the form of citizen viewers and readers and participators that can truly empower it as the perfect arena for a multitude of voices to co-exist, debate and ultimately, inform.

Tabloid Cricket? A Sport 'In Transit'

I honestly can't believe I'm writing about sports. (are pigs flying?)

But here's a piece on the evolving nature of Indian cricket as it transitions from a national sport to a league-based system, sparked by a guest speaker in my Sports & Globalization class last night. He repped the NBA's international operations branch and kept emphasizing how the advent of league cricket in India was making it easier for his organization to spread its tentacles there. Interestingly enough he mentioned a potential--albeit hush, hush--project between Hindi movie producers and the NBA in the hopes of generating popularity for the sport. Rumor has it that Kobe Bryant already met with a Khan or two. Bollywood Basketball may be closer than you think. But you heard it here first :)

In the meantime--my two cents on the IPL.

Monstrous flames blaze from his leg-guards, while a majestic drumbeat thunders in the background. At center stage is Shah Rukh Khan, kingpin of the commercial Indian film industry, outfitted in a black and yellow Kolkata Knight Rider’s uniform. As an entourage of extras join him, together, they engage in a spirited dance routine, set to an exuberant song entitled, “Korbo, Lorbo, Jit Bore” (Bengali for, “we will do it, fight for it and win it”). The pulsating drums quicken.

Such is the introduction to one of the first music videos to emerge from the Indian Premier League (IPL), and a flamboyant effort to catapult Kolkata’s state-based cricket team to fame. As the video continues, Khan undergoes a dramatic costume change—he trades in the uniform for a shimmering cloak—while the Bengali is replaced with snappy English lyrics: “We’re too hot, we’re too cool, we’re Kolkata, we rule!” It’s a messy amalgam: part folk song, part war cry, with a pinch of Bollywood and the flourish of a cheerleading routine. Is Indian cricket undergoing an identity crisis?

In many ways, the 60-second music video encapsulates the hazy transition that cricket is currently experiencing—in India, at least. Sports and national consciousness have often been linked, whether it is ice hockey and Canada, soccer and Argentina, or baseball and the United States. Throw in a turbulent colonial history and it further complicates the connection, as exemplified by India’s curious and constantly evolving relationship with cricket. What started off as a way of challenging the occupiers at their own game during the days of the Empire soon became a sport that was synonymous with patriotic virtue post-independence, as India attempted to define its national identity on a world stage. It is only appropriate, then, that cricket’s latest avatar comes in the form of intra-national competition, laced with all the symbols of market capitalism, reflected by the eight, state-based team that make up the IPL.

“A new cricket league is trying to spin off India’s colonial inheritance into a money making symbol of a brash, emerging nation,” writes New York Times journalist, Somini Sengupta. Others, including Rajdeep Sardesai, the editor-in-chief of a prominent Indian news channel, have described the sport’s new incarnation as “cricket’s version of tabloid journalism…it is much more about glamour and entertainment than about what happens between the players."


It should be noted that the version of cricket touted by the IPL is referred to as the Twenty20 brand. This brand is a slicker, more TV-friendly counterpart to the dowdy five-day matches introduced by the British. The name, Twenty20 refers to 20 overs—cricket’s version of an inning—granted to each team. It slowly becomes apparent that the ritualistic nature of the five-day version is being whittled down for the convenience of media sponsors and television channels, a sure indicator of the power that market forces have over the structure of a sport that has existed for centuries.

Ultimately, is the Indian Premier League just another product of globalization, the great leveler and homogenizer? Though it has only been in existence for less than a year, it is already ripe with all the ingredients for a marketer’s wet dream—high-powered stars, mammoth sponsors and an audience of thousands. This is not the only time cricket has transformed in shape, responding to the socioeconomic changes around it. One can only hope, though, that rather than getting lost amidst the powerful distractions, the essence of the game remains.

PS: For those of you who think cricket is limited to the Commonwealth, it's slowly making a presence in New York. The NY Times' "10 Best Books of 2008," (a highly anticipated list released yesterday) includes 'Netherland' a novel that highlights the sport against a post 9/11 backdrop.

Electorally Challenged

Much to the disappointment of zestful campaigners across the nation, I didn't vote this year. And I promise it has nothing to do with one particularly frazzled McCain supporter who addressed me as "sir" last month. In all seriousness though, I've never voted. It's a logistically-oriented deprivation: the direct result of incessantly shuttling around. (Does India even do absentee ballots?) If there ever was a year I wished I scored the privilege though, it would undoubtedly be this one.

The foreigner in me will admit that the US elections have only been a part of my life since 2000, when my quirky US History teacher, Mr. Powers, decided to trade our week-long section on the Cold War for bewildered analysts on CNN. As Hanging Chads overshadowed the Cuban Missile Crisis, a classroom of international students reluctantly tuned in to political perplexities, unfolding oceans and time zones away. We didn't question why it mattered to us, a group of bright-eyed 15-year-olds in Japan. We watched the chaos like we would a highly-charged courtroom drama, biting our nails, dramatically exclaiming,"I can't watch anymore!" Ultimately, America decided, we returned the long-overdue TV to our slightly ticked-off tech department and got back to taking practice AP exams. Most of us would pack our bags in a couple of years, jetting off to Europe, Australia but most likely, the United States.

2004 found me in a dorm room at Syracuse University. My roommates and I treated the elections as background noise, not especially attached to any of the presidential hopefuls, continuing with our [insert Tuesday night college activity of choice here]. The next day, a quiet disappointment accompanied the morning fog, slowly making its way through campus. I shrugged it off, with an airy claim that really, it was none of my business.

Exactly four years later, the mood was different still. No longer able to cower under the defense of a temporary connection, I watched my husband leave home extra early on election day. As he planned to beat the crowds at our neighborhood voting station (or so he thought), I resisted the urge to go with him, even if it was just to stand in line. I spent the day scouring the web, flipping channels, composing the beginnings of this blog and attending class, where dozens of students shared my giddy excitement. This year was different, they claimed. The lines were far longer. I did my part by doing what any politically engaged resident alien would. I shopped. Purchasing Barack Obama's autobiography a month before D-day, I dove in head first, smitten by his lyrical prose, unabashed insecurities and ever-present optimism.

Scores have blogged about his grandiose political visions and the breakthrough implications of electing him. At the risk of sounding gushy and redundant, I will refrain. What I do respect, among a plethora of things, is his ability to speak, loudly and compassionately, for those of us who exist amidst the fault lines of definition: nationality, ethnicity and race. We reside in the fissures, however jagged, unable to neatly gift-wrap our histories and hometowns when asked where we're "really" from. Never did I think I'd see a day when my mottled background would find common ground with that of the American president. The last guy and I definitely didn't share much, unless, of course, you count the tendency to choke on pretzels.

Ushering in Obama's victory at a neighborhood bar a few nights ago, it was evident that those surrounding us were especially proud to be American that evening. For me, the emphatic sentiment seemed premature. I could certainly claim, however, that he made me proud to want to become one.

*For more on this, see here

07030

Look up the word 'Boken' in any Japanese dictionary and it'll translate to 'adventure'. In American English, I mean, er, New Jersey English, 'Boken' is local talk referring to a small city in Hudson County that I am slowly getting used to calling my new home. The cozy brownstones that line Hoboken's main drag and the city's confident, even gaze towards the Manhattan skyline are beginning to assure me that anything is possible against the backdrop of this young, effervescent community. But what an adventure it's been.

My husband, Raj and I arrived here about a month ago, a jarring reality check after our honeymoon: 10 blissful days on the sleepy little isle of Maui. Sun-kissed, jittery and slightly delusional (the inevitable result of prolonged beach time, copious amounts of Kona Coffee and spending over 13 hours on a flight) we convinced ourselves that moving the day after we landed would be no biggie*. Miraculously, thanks to our family, the move went off without a hitch though I can't say the same about our first few weeks. For starters, without warning, the water heater in our building single-handedly decided that come Labor Day, it was going to retire. We became experts in the art of cold showers, eagerly awaiting the next passive-aggressive note from our condo board association, which would, more often than not, sternly emphasize our need to be patient (apology not included). It was only after spending a week loofahing in what felt like a refrigerator that the hot water gods smiled on us, granting us the right to bathe like civilized people again.

Next up, our floor fiasco. Bit by the Do-It-Ourselves bug, we decided to re-do our wooden floors, hoping to trade the lifeless beige look for a darker, chocolatey interior. Chalking it up to a weekend job, Raj coralled his older brother and cousin for help. I politely ducked away from the entire project altogether, a decision based on my non-existent handyman skills (hey, for the longest time I thought "spackling" was a dance move) and averse reaction to all things Home Depot. I escaped to my little sister's while the boys got to work, unaware of Hurricane Gustav, inching his way into the greater New Jersey area. Polyurethane and humidity are an unfortunate combination, I am told. And so, what started off as a two-day stint ballooned into an exhaustive, five-day effort. Though I must say, me and our rich, cherry-wood floors are forever grateful, gentlemen.

Of course, it's not over. We have a bathroom to paint, a microscopic kitchen to expand and a living room to furnish. And this time, I promise to get involved. Some adventures, I suppose, never end.

*I don't recommend this.

Shaadi & The City: Horsepower

What's 5"2, attending my wedding this weekend and bummed that the lunch buffet doesn't offer a fine selection of oats?

That would be our horse. Hailing from Loon Meadow Farms in Norfolk, Connecticut, the vanilla-hued mare that my soon-to-be husband will be perched atop during his procession claims a solid background in Indian weddings, having featured in everything from baraats to vidais. This is reassuring, as it convinces me that the horse was previously exposed to a dhol and won't go ballistic upon hearing the thunderous drum beat, hurtling down I-84 with my groom.

It's all fun and games, of course, until someone has to schlep around for the permit. Because the sleepy little town of Waterbury, CT (once brass capital of the world, it was most recently in the news for being one of the "10 Worst Places To Live in America") is totally unfamiliar with the concept of a "baraat" let alone an Indian ceremony, for paperwork purposes, our wedding is clumped together with the likes of protests and pageants. Which is how my planners and I find ourselves downtown, running around like headless chickens in an attempt to secure a parade permit. Nobody knows what to make of three slightly overdressed brown people requesting permission for a drummer, souped up horse and groom's procession to noisily dance across Main Street next Saturday. As we are ping-ponged across the city's offices, we face an array of reactions, from expressions of utter befuddlement, to intrigue to straight-up rudeness. Eventually it is a disgruntled officer by the name of Sergeant Pepper (yes, that's his real name. yes, he's heard it all before.) who gives us the go ahead with some rudimentary paperwork. Exhausted as ever, we're ready to giddy-up.

Shaadi and The City: Gut Instincts

The shimmery lining that borders the nimbus cloud of wedding planning comes in the form of food tastings. A welcome respite from some of the more cerebral decisions, restaurant visits allow you to think with your stomach. Doting managers, eager to be your caterers-of-choice, engage in gallant displays of their menus while singing the saccharine refrain : "Anything you want!" Your cousins don't care for cilantro? Your grandmother's strict Jain diet prohibits her from the onion-garlic-potato triumvirate? Your best friend from college demands gulab jamuns or threatens to skip the reception? [Insert Name of Desired Restaurant Here] can do it all, and throw in free mango ice-cream while they're at it. FYI: Most tastings are free.

Our culinary quest begins on a drizzly spring evening when my fiance and I stop by The Bukhara Grill, a swanky midtown establishment boasting a cascading waterfall entrance. Already, I'm excited. As I will soon learn though, elaborate entrances such as this one usually translate into extravagant catering costs. We are greeted by a booming voice and the towering owner, Raja, who leads us upstairs, orders a round of drinks and immediately familiarizes us with his roster of past events. It's a jaw-dropping resume that includes Salman Rushdie's 2004 wedding, U2's last New York visit and the White House's very first Diwali celebration. We devour the complimentary dinner, a breathtaking array of succulent paneer kebabs, creamy spinach kofta curry, and firni, a heavenly, melt-in-your-mouth rice pudding that practically leaves us in tears. Raja doesn't mess around. A week later, we receive the proposed budget. Unless we are willing to provide him with a sum that would probably buy a man-made island in Dubai, it becomes heartbreakingly clear that Bukhara will not be doing our wedding.

Eventually, we agree to take it down a notch and drive to New Haven, Connecticut, hitting a Yale favorite, Zaroka. I discreetly look around for a waterfall, but find that the ambience is an approachable blend of Tanjor paintings, organza throw pillows, and a smattering of Ivy Leaguers who didn't go home for the summer. We are introduced to Ram, a bubbly Nepali whose sentences are punctuated by nervous giggles. Between morsels of cocktail samosas and fluorescent pink onion fritters, we draft up a menu. When we tell Ram that we'll be getting married in a theater, he is skeptical. "No kitchen?" he asks, anxiously. "No facility? Tough, very tough..." he trails off. We aren't digging the lack of confidence, but ask him for a proposal anyway. Over two weeks later, we're still waiting.

While waiting, we stumble across a sincere and promising lead that may just be it. Nothing's final, though I can assure you they make the best and butteriest (<--so incredibly buttery that I've had to create a new word) kaali daal I have had the pleasure of dunking my naan into. They've never cooked in a theater before, but they're optimistic--I think they're going with their guts. Ultimately, so are we.

Nowhere Nationalism

It is American to choose. It is American to make informed decisions. And it is American to be an independent thinker. Or so I am reminded by a certain news channel, propelling its patriotic spirit in star-spangled style. But why stop at the news media, in honor of July 4th, nationalism is being touted with extra pomp by virtually everyone this week: car dealerships, furniture stores, even clothing outlets are urging individuals to spend in the name of freedom. Rather than being isolated ideals then, choice, information and independence--the red, white and blue of American psyche, perhaps?--seem to be necessary ingredients in order to produce what may be the ultimate symbol of American nationalism, consumption.

Which brings me to a question I've always wanted to tackle...am I a nationalist? I am actually far from being a legitimate one though on occasion I certainly (and guiltily) crave the connection, reflecting the sort of 'neurosis' that the scholar Benedict Anderson depicts in his discussion of imagined communities: "nationalism is the pathology of modern developmental history, as inescapable as 'neurosis' in an individual with the same ambiguities attaching to it...and largely incurable." The mutated strain of nationalism that I'm plagued with, then, is especially incurable, primarily because it promises to be an unresolved, lifelong sickness.

My symptoms are the most severe when I undergo a procedure I repeat almost biannually: bleary-eyed, nauseous and sluggish, I shuffle through a serpentine line at Detroit Metropolitan Airport, struggling to regain feeling in my legs after a 13-hour flight from Osaka, Japan. Fellow travelers and I are brusquely herded to the appropriate counter—marked with a neon sign that screams, "Visitor" and snapped at if we step out of place. More often than not, getting to the end of the cue means speaking to a gruff-voiced officer who raises his eyebrows at my Indian passport, embossed with a stamp of Japanese permanent residency and an American visa.

On many an occasion, attempting to explain my fragmented background has nearly led me to miss my connecting flight, and it is at times like these I most desperately wish I had a simple answer to "where are you from?" I yearn to be yoked to a single nation, rather than claiming lukewarm allegiances to a handful.

Despite being born in Kobe, I was shuttled to my parents' home country of India when I was approximately 40 days old. Since that trip, my family and I took at least 15 more, deliberate but futile efforts on my parents' part for my younger sister and I to cement a formidable relationship with a nation we would only vacation in. If nationalism is, in fact, about being recognized and being understood and if language is the principle mechanism through which this process of recognition can take place, I would certainly be unable to feel that visceral connection to India—or anywhere else, for that matter.

Up until I started elementary school at an Anglican establishment in Kobe, I spoke a combination of Gujarati and Japanese, awkward and abrasive to a stranger, but pure comfort to me. Gujarati was eventually demoted for British English, and then its twangy counterpart when I switched over to the American international school,promising because of its ability to guarantee admission into a university in the U.S.

Because of my incessant exposure to the international school system, I was increasingly isolated from the Japanese community at large, further contributing to my gaijin or "foreigner" status. It doesn't help that Japan's inconsequential minority community hardly has a place in shaping its political identity in the first place. Besides the Chinese, who make up 0.4% of the nation's population, 98.5% of the country is ethnically Japanese, leaving me and my family in the company of 0.7% "other" nationals.

Discouraged by the lack of national identity and voice I found in both India and Japan, my attention is now turned to the US, where a few years of hard work promises to grant practically anybody the right to (superficially, at least) participate in the patriotic rhetoric of "we, the people".

I'll watch the fireworks next Friday, not quite sure of what to make of "independence" on a Manhattan rooftop, clutching a chilled brew in one fist and what I hope will be a warm hand in the other. Rather than naively hoping to feel an instantaneous connection, however, I am slowly accepting that I'm just adding another nation to the ever-growing list of places I will eventually feel estranged from, further fueling my desire to belong.

Shaadi & The City: Sari So Sloppy

I'm not entirely positive how I've spent 24 years without mastering the art of wearing a sari. With a grandmother who ran a fabric-printing factory, a mother who could probably fold a wicked set of chiffon pleats blindfolded, and a father who's always asserted the fact that Indian women look the classiest when wearing one, I can only think of one reason why I've shirked the six yards of cloth: pure, unadulterated fear.

Thanks to my awkward set of motor skills--something that can be confirmed by my kindergarten report card--I had visions of getting lost inside the intricate folds of the thing, being pricked to death by the numerous safety pins I would foolishly use to fasten it, only to look like a frat boy in a toga three times his size. In short, I'm a lost cause.

On a recent family trip to Mumbai, my mother seemed to think otherwise. Unbenownst to me, I was signed up for a series of sari draping workshops (an effort to raise my newly-wed cred, perhaps?) and cheerily told that I would be starting ASAP. In the past, I'd managed to talk myself out of other "fun" classes I was almost hijacked into taking including but not limited to vegetable carving and napkin folding. I wish I was kidding, believe me I do. But this time, I was out of excuses. You'd be surprised to know what 98 degree weather does to your strategic reasoning. I also reluctantly realized this skill seemed far more relevant and applicable than, say, the ones needed to transform the head of a pineapple into a delicate swan. After all, on the few occasions that I had managed to pull off a sari, courtesy of friends who patiently put me in one, I quite liked the floaty and ultra-feminine feel of it. And as my pragmatic little sister pointed out, I didn't want to end up scrounging around for help every time I decided to wear one.

Which is how I found myself in the home of Mrs. Sushila Bhatia, a few days into my Indian holiday. Sushila Aunty, a petite sixty-something with a tight smile and pair of egg-shaped glasses that gave her a sort of owlish vibe, was optimistic. "Beta, we'll have you draping this thing in your sleep," she proclaimed, in a murky combination of English and Gujarati. And so began my set of five classes in the sweltering heat of her Breach Candy apartment. My classroom was an empty bedroom, bordered by foggy, full length mirrors, containing nothing but a tiny tape recorder that blared the Gayatri Mantra on repeat.

Mornings with Sushila Aunty began with her verbally outlining a series of instructions involved in draping various different sari styles after which she would peer at me expectantly. In return, I would offer a clumsier, choppier rendition of the steps. Most classes ended with the sari, defiantly tumbling down into a massive heap around my ankles and me finding inconspicuous ways to cover up my exposed gut.

The whole thing reminded me of a cross between the military and finishing school. Occasionally, with her hands planted on the hips of her pastel nightgown (ironically enough, I never saw Sushila Aunty in a sari), she would throw in a tip or two about the most optimal place to fasten a safety pin and how to bend down "gracefully." If my pallu happened to be especially neatly placed, I'd be treated to morsels of gossip from the Mumbai wedding scene--on the side, Sushila Aunty is also a bridal consultant.

Soon enough, she accepted the fact that I was not going to be one of her star studded pupils, experts in swathing themselves virtually anywhere--moving vehicles, rooms without electricity, minuscule airplane bathrooms, etc. I was merely a perseverant individual who was determined to keep the style statement from going extinct [For a slightly chauvinistic but well-written take on this, see here) My pleats will always be a little off center and my safety pin wobblier than the rest, but I'm relieved to announce that my fear of the sari is now a thing of the past.

Don't even think about napkin folding though.

Shaadi and The City: Get Married Away

Last week, somewhere between discussing the diameters of dandiya sticks and and determining whether sandwich dhoklas qualify as "garba friendly" appetizers, I confirmed that wedding planning was officially taking over my life. With the first semester of grad school done with and d-day looming, exactly three months away, I am dealing with the fact that the bulk of my summer months won't be spent frolicking around The City, lounging in Central Park and taking a seminar on the Politics of Power at my university. And honestly, I'm okay with that. In fact, just for yucks, I'm letting some of that notoriously liberal New School philosophy permeate my life a little, and trying to look at the build-up to my wedding from the point of view of an--yes, really--ethnographer.

Formally, ethnography is defined as "the fundamental research method of cultural anthropolgy". Yawn. To dissect that a little, it's an anthropological approach that emphasizes the importance of being a part of the community you study, so rather than merely "observing", one (i.e. me) is actually immersed in the daily on-goings of the group.

So excuse me if the next few entries seem series-like, but to paraphrase the adage, you're supposed to write what you know, and what I know right now is the big, fat, syrupy world of Indian weddings: mandaps, malai koftas and mehndi. Whether I choose to look at it as a million-dollar industry, an age-old tradition or something in between, come August 16, I'll be participating in my (gulp) very own one. If you're reading this, consider yourself invited ;)

The Airport Chronicles (II) : Stand By Me

Now, now, before you go thinking this is going to be some slushy tribute to the vocal calisthenics of Ben E. King, let me clarify by saying that this story, like most of the adventures I am involved in, begins in an airport.

Technically I suppose it begins on a rooftop in Brooklyn the previous night, where a group of starry-eyed international affairs majors engaged in a jubilant end-of-the-semester soiree complete with tealights, an impromptu trumpet solo and vino.

Knowing full well that I had an early morning flight to Detroit the next day, in honor of my little sister's college graduation, I kept the Rioja consumption to a minimum--no easy feat, especially when there's a book-swap-dance-a-thon involved--but succeeded, or so I thought as I huffed up my fourth floor walk-up at 2 am.

With my bag packed, alarm set and graduation card sealed (yea, Neesh!) I collapsed into bed, only to wake up five minutes before take-off. A myriad of emphatic four letter words swam through my murky brain and I was confronted with the image of my father, dejectedly shaking his head--after years of carefully constructed pre-travel checklists and religiously getting to the airport at least 80 minutes prior to departure is this what I had to show for myself? As I hauled ass to La Guardia, well aware of the fact that NW flight 542 was now en route--as a matter of fact, according to my calculations, somebody was probably getting snapped at for failing to put their damn tray table up--I tried to take comfort in the fact that for someone who had been flying since she was 40 days old, I had a decent track record : this was the first flight I had ever missed.

So what's protocol, I thought to myself, as I marched over to the Northwest counter, determined to get to Detroit on the next flight available. "Sorry," said Gregg, the agent whom I would get to know super well throughout the course of the day. "It's graduation weekend honey, everyone's going to Detroit. You're on stand by."

I parked myself at Gate #9, eliciting a combination of sympathetic smiles and suspicious glances from gate agents, passengers and airport janitors. "Well, well, well. If it isn't 'Terminal: The Sequel," they must have thought to themselves. I drank overpriced coffee. I made whiny phone calls. I began to wish they would get rid of the "no deodorant on board" rule. I struck up conversation with strangers and tried bartering my dog-eared copy of People magazine for their confirmed seats. No dice.

And then, at approximately 6 pm, exactly 9 hours after my scheduled departure time, (at this point Gregg had offered me a job at the terminal), I was graced with the magic words. "Havier, A-yar-ty?" crackled the gate agent. There's nothing like hearing your--severely butchered--name over the microphone , especially after you've spent an entire day watching really bad CNN, crumpled up on a plastic bench that has stripped your butt of all feeling. As I leapt towards the boarding door, I passed by an applauding Gregg. "You're out of here, finally!" he exclaimed. And that I was.

The Architecture of Resilience

I recently plowed through Naomi Klein's "Shock Doctrine" for yet another class assignment (yay, grad school. I have no social life but hey, whatever, the Barnes & Nobles people love me).

Klein's portrayals of societies, entangled in the aftermath of disaster, transported me to my own experience with a large-scale catastrophe. The year was 1995 and I was in the fifth grade, my thoughts teetering between an impending math project and my project partner whom I had a not-so-camouflaged crush on, as I made my bed that January evening. Hours later, my family and I were jolted awake by a guttural roar from the ground beneath us, and a series of shakes that has to this day, left me terrified of even the slightest bit of turbulence when I am aboard an airplane. We had just been acquainted with an earthquake that measured 7.2 on the Richter scale, a tectonic beast that would claim the lives of approximately 6,400. In 20 seconds, The Great Hanshin Earthquake, as it would soon be referred to by journalists, eager to get knee-deep in the world's disaster du jour, had destroyed my hometown of Kobe, Japan.

Though the week that followed remains hazy, each day blurred by the next, what I remember about the airy parking lot where we sought refuge (along with dozens of other families, sleeping in their cars for at least 5 days) was an unflinching sense of resilience. It came in the form of the orderly lines for food and water, with virtually no one cutting in. It was also apparent in the steely determination exhibited by the adults as they made brief but strategic trips to our disheveled homes, combing the debris for essentials, fully aware that violent aftershocks were only minutes away.

Much like the individuals whom Klein portrays as the vehicles of "movements that do not seek to start from scratch but rather from scrap, from the rubble that is all around," (Klein 466), the inhabitants of my city seemed to be experts in the architecture of resilience. The Japanese psyche has often been singled out for its ability to reflect something called a typhoon mentality, "a fatalistic acceptance of nature's awesome might and a great capacity to dig themselves out after such catastrophes" (Murase 142), largely attributed to the nation's physical susceptibility to geological disasters.

Approximately 2 months after the quake, however, the city government proposed a rebuilding method, valiantly titled, "The Phoenix Plan." It was an effort to "wipe the parcel clean" (Oakes 4), something that would certainly—according to Klein, at least—be cause for alarm. The government's wish list included a Super Convention Center and plenty of high-rises with well-stocked shopping plazas in their basements (Oakes 4). To quote the governor of Hyogo Prefecture, the state-level government for which Kobe is the capital, Phoenix was not only designed to "restore the region to its pre-quake condition but also to solve underlying problems faced by Japan, such as an increasingly aging population, the need for an open economy, and the concentration of problems associated with increased urbanization around the world" (Oakes 4). Such rhetoric is heavily contaminated with disaster capitalism and eerily reminiscent to that of the Sri Lankan government's, post-tsunami, as it attempted to "fulfill its destiny as a playground for the plutonomy set" (Klein 393).

Today, over a decade after the quake, the larger Kobe area is home to its own version of the American theme park, Universal Studios. Malls, gargantuan for Japanese standards, are sprouting up in the outskirts. On the flip side, there are more inspiring stories, found in spots including the Nada ward of the city, where 220 houses were charred as a result of quake-related fires. Nada's residents held a series of land readjustment meetings, through which they agreed to "give up a certain percentage of their own land to create wider roads," (Okazaki 1) a prime example of civil society in action. Whether such goals were specifically outlined in the phoenix's agenda remains unclear. For the moment, the relationship between Kobe's municipal government, driven by opportunistic impulses and its residents, discovering a growing sense of community, is as unpredictable as the fault lines that rest under the city.

Apple Bottom Jeans & Goats With The Furrrr: Cashmere Confidential

A recent assignment in my "Global Flows" class at The New School forced me to trace the production cycle of one of my favorite articles of clothing: a feathery, salmon-toned cashmere, the perfect pick-me-up on a blustery winter morning. It was a Uniqlo* purchase, or steal, as I like to think of it, for a measly 3,900 yen. For something that claims to be 100 percent cashmere, I'd say its a pretty sweet deal.

Or is it?

As I was catapulted from Uniqlo's rows of Pantone colored turtlenecks to the deteriorating grasslands of China, I came across some pretty frightening stuff. While the company takes full advantage of China's cashmere-producing goat herds, it's actually tainting the skies over--gasp--North America. If you don't believe me, you should at least believe Evan Osnos of the Chicago Tribune on his freaky expose of "the connection between cheap sweaters, Asia's prairies and America's air [capturing how] ordinary shifts in the global economy are triggering extraordinary change."

I'll give you a slightly truncated version of Osnos' alarming discovery. As Uniqlo touts its cheap cashmere, these unfortunate goats are forced to graze away at the already dwindling grasslands, contributing to some of the worst and most far-reaching dust storms China--and the world--have ever seen.

In the mean time, Uniqlo continues to produce syrupy promotional placards such as this one, which sat next to a stack of sweaters at its Menlo Park branch in NJ.

"Uniqlo's cashmere is the crown jewel of fabrics everywhere. To make you happy three Mongolian goats have given up their wool to make your sweater. It is soft, warm and also lightweight. It is the only cashmere that is not expensive like other cashmeres. This will bring good feelings to everyone."

Talk about pulling the (unjustly produced) wool over your eyes...

*Uniqlo=Japan's neatly folded answer to The Gap

The Airport Chronicles (I): My Suitcase Went To Belize And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt...

After a recent suitcase no-show at Houston's Bush International Airport (mind you I was there for a shaadi and instead of showing off my three meticulously chosen outfits, I flounced around in a friend's--Satvi, bless your soul--sari for the majority of the occasions), I consulted the foolishly christened baggage "help" desk. After enduring a week-long gauntlet of comatose agents, "please hold, ma'am's" and spelling and re-spelling my last name, we finally discovered that my bag had been mistagged and sent off to Belize. It enjoyed 5 days at a local warehouse before making its way back to La Guardia. Judging from the broken zipper, I think it had a fabulous time.

What frustrates me the most about this past week is not so much that my bag got mislabeled but that practically everyone I spoke to at Continental Airlines seemed to exhibit the I.Q. and compassion of a banana slug. One especially bright agent constantly confused Belize with Brazil, while another refused to acknowledge the fact that my bag had arrived in La Guardia until she decided to scroll down on her computer and followed up with a sheepish, "oops, I was just kidding." Not once was I apologized to for a mistake that was entirely the airlines' fault, and on multiple occasions I was bluntly informed that my bag would never return. FYI, the actual chances of a suitcase being permanently lost in airport oblivion is actually .005%.

I'll spare you from any diatribe-ish words on how I'll never fly Continental Airlines again (Though I really wouldn't. Ever. Again.) but the moral of the story? CHECK YOUR BAG TAGS, PEOPLE! 'Cause in the big bad delay and incompetence-driven world of airlines, no one can be trusted.

Maid in Japan

So I originally drafted this a few months ago for Kansai Scene, an Osaka-based travel and culture mag, and it's finally made its way to print. It's a one-pager on "Maid Cafes" in Japan, aka, seedy establishments where the questionably young waitresses prance around in French maid outfits that are about three sizes too small for them. Creeped out or intrigued? Give the piece a read, either way.