In Transit

Spot On

2010-04-26T11:05:00.010-04:00

On an unusually listless Friday morning, a friend's enthusiastic Tweet prompts me to engage in some NPR trolling, and I stumble across an interview entitled, "When Cultures Collide." It's a collision I'm always intrigued by, so with a cup of strong mint and lemongrass chai by my side, I proceed to listen, undisturbed, for the entire, seventeen minute segment, as the band "Goldspot" is profiled. I'm somewhat charmed by the curious melodies crooned by the lead singer, Sid Khosla. Named for the effervescent and syrupy orange soda, exclusively available in India, Goldspot combines dreamy, Bollywood strings (you practically want to dash through a field of marigolds) and a Beatles-inspired commitment to effortlessly hummable tunes, evident in their second album, "And The Elephant is Dancing." In short, happy music.

3 days later, I still have the album on repeat, and I'm baffled by my own obsession. What's with me? A little bit of soul-searching leads me to believe that Goldspot, in all its fused glory, has managed to evoke something in me that I thought wouldn't surface for decades to come: nostalgia.

Khosla's infectious lilt, which at times is inspired by the legendary Bollywood serenader, Kishore Kumar, coaxes me to remember childhood afternoons, when my mother, an accomplished multi tasker, would regularly load up my sister and I in the car. She'd slip in a KK mix tape to accompany us as we expertly whizzed through downtown Kobe. Despite the occasional raised eyebrows we'd receive from some of the locals (ever heard the man yodel?) we'd cross off her exhaustive to-do list, stop by stop, with our trustee tapes blaring. These were the songs that lulled us to sleep and the ones that served as audible mood indicators, letting us in on whether it was an opportune moment to ask for our favorite dinner dish.

In college, surrounded by fellow B&W Bollywood devotees, I distinctly remember when the songs of my childhood unassumingly crossed the cool threshold (in my mind, anyway) as they composed the background score to many a house party, more romantic than rowdy.

As for The Beatles, I'm an ardent fan thanks to my father, who regularly belted out "We Can Work it Out" and "A Hard Day's Night" during family karaoke nights. He'd tell us about stocking up on records as a child, and memorizing the words without the help of the lyric pamphlet we grew so accustomed to, inserted alongside our CDs. There is little else that compares to being stuffed in a room the size of a matchbox with your loved ones, watching them go euphoric (however off key) over a song.

The trouble is, despite being tangled in precious memories, my fascination for sepia-toned Bollywood tunes and The Red Album always felt a little borrowed. So I'm grateful for the existence of a band like Goldspot, which reconstitutes tried-and-tested tunes, pays homage to the legends, all while managing to inject something fresh and spunky along the way. Rather than forcing me to choose between my many worlds--past and present--Goldspot melodiously reassures me that I can, in fact, listen to everything at once.

Under Pressure

2010-04-20T17:04:00.014-04:00

If there’s a sound that catapults me back to childhood, it’s the rattle of a pressure cooker. I would watch in awe as the star soloist in my mother's kitchen ballet performed. A silver nozzle engaged in dizzy pirouettes, swirling maniacally, until a whistle marked its aromatic finale. Out came other worldly meals: fluffy pulao, silken dal, and potatoes, gracefully bordering steamy and soft.

Intimidated (who isn't petrified of prying it open a few milliseconds too soon, only to face an eruption that would probably put that volcano in Iceland to shame?) I never envisioned possessing a stainless steel gadget of my own, until I was provided one by my mother-in-law last fall, a warm nudge encouraging me to replicate the gastronomical traditions of Gujarat, the northwestern Indian state that both our families call home. It sat in the desolate corner of a cabinet for months, as I airily assured myself that there would always be time to go the languid, slow boil route. But watching lentils cook is right up there in the entertainment category with paint drying, and I soon relented.

I’d like to think I’m solely upholding heritage but my reasons for perusing the vessel are far more utilitarian: it whittles down an otherwise sluggish ordeal, docks dollars off the energy bill and hardly takes up real estate in my microscopic, metropolitan kitchen. Vinod, as I have not-so-creatively christened my cooker, thanks to the letters emblazoned across his shiny midsection, marks my first--albeit, reluctant--foray into the world of Indian cooking. We'll see where I go with it. For the moment, I face a looming graduation date, a myriad of half-written job applications, a dreary employment market and the occasional bout of homesickness. When it all gets a little overwhelming, I am comforted by the fact that a fragrant, hot meal is just a few screeching whistles away. So along with my cooker, I blow off some steam.

This post is dedicated to my friend, Sima Thakkar, who just launched a brave new website for those who approach tradition with a healthy dose of trepidation, just like me.

The Inheritance of Optimism

2009-09-01T09:02:00.002-04:00

I'm in the Wall Street Journal!

Original Blend

2009-08-22T16:31:00.000-04:00

I was raised in the port of Kobe—one of the first Japanese cities to pry its doors open to foreign trade, circa 1867—where the triumphant honks of docking ships regularly punctuated my evenings. In transit, the vessels fueled up on Kobe water, abound with minerals from the city’s statuesque Rokko Mountains, proven to retain freshness despite long and arduous transcontinental voyages.

It’s the calcium and potassium enriched water, known to locals as miya mizu, that lends a sublime flavor to the aromatic mugs of coffee served at my favorite city café, Nishimura. When it was first established post WWII, the café began as a humble, provisional goods store, sandwiched between shell-shocked buildings in 1948. Situated steps away from Ijinkan, a brick laden neighborhood that was designated for foreign settlers in the late 19th century, Nishimura constantly emanates a tart and smoky scent, eager to transform even a nonchalant passerby into a connoisseur. When I visited the cafe on a recent trip home, my conversation with the store's VP (his voice dipped, almost reverently when discussing the drink) taught me that prior to Nishimura's existence, locals once drank coffee pressed from soy beans.

The café’s cosmopolitan menu, second in worldliness only to the map of the world that’s displayed inside, (crafted entirely from coffee beans) touts ten roasts, ranging from the rich and weighty Kenyan Peaberry to the milder Brazilian Bahia Santos. Nishimura’s signature blend, however, is a collection of approximately six bean varieties—a carefully guarded proprietary secret—combined to create a nutty mélange. Other sip-worthy drinks include a sinfully creamy Vienna Coffee and my personal favorite, the Nishimura cappuccino, frothed to perfection, topped by an earthy, cinnamon bark. And then there’s the food. Pillowy wedges of toast, filigreed with strawberry jam, decadent German cherry chocolate cake, and a range of gem-toned parfaits—edible testaments to Kobe’s mottled but vibrant culinary heritage, a checkered amalgam of France, Germany and certainly, Japan.

Nishimura has thrived mainly because of its remarkable ability to pick up on a major transition that Japanese food culture experienced in the 1960's, as it flowed from tatami mats to table-tops. This marked the advent of Nishimura’s highly westernized setto menu (literally, “set menu”), combinations of double-decker sandwiches, salads and gratins, all flanked by a bottomless cup of the original blend. Yet there is something distinctly local about one of the menu’s most popular items, Horenso Toast, comprised of 3 slabs of shokupan (fluffy, Japanese sandwich bread) layered with spinach, sautéed in generous pats of butter. It is this unobtrusive, culinary balancing act that will ensure Nishimura's survival as it continues to preside, quietly, over the city.

Busted: The "Asian" Myth

2009-03-03T10:45:00.000-05:00

Leading the lackadaisical schedule associated with grad students has prompted me to form a love-hate relationship with daytime TV. Between flamboyant Court TV judges, All My Children, and frothy episodes of Tyra, I think its safe to say I'm heavier on the hate.

But I can't think of the last thing that's made my blood simmer the way this morning's segment on The Today Show did--Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb's overly simplified and borderline insulting simulated tour across a bizarre interpretation of "Asia."* The women, outfitted in a garish combo of silk kimonos and questionably angled bindis, enlightened their viewers on quintessential "Asian" experiences, complete with a sloppy origami lesson, a food sampling that frenetically spanned the continent (bibimbop, biryani, and bubble tea) and a makeshift petting zoo featuring a who's-who of Asian animals including a 47-year-old Macac and a Bactrian Camel. All topped with a whirlwind bhangra tutorial--insert the obligatory, "balle balle" here--from Masala Bhangra guru, Sarina Jain. Bite-sized culture nuggets, reducing age-old traditions to snappy, 30-second television spots. Excuse my lack of eloquence. But what the hell?

Though I'm no certified expert, I can certainly claim that the more mainstream American media finds it acceptable to present viewers with this weird and dare I say, Orientalist-inspired agglomeration that is "Asia", the more we are misinforming our audiences. And though I'm slightly embarrassed to quote the title of an existing Facebook group to bolster my point, here goes: "There's More Than One Country in Asia, People!" (yes, I'm a member). Japan is not China. And neither is Taiwan. But how are we to drive home this point if the all-encompassing, "Asian" umbrella is conveniently flapped open when any of these distinct nations becomes a topic of conversation?

Thoughts?

*Tomorrow on Today? South America!

The Raga Saga

2009-02-01T12:28:00.000-05:00

I always wondered how old I'd be when I'd develop a fondness for Indian classic music, namely, the delicate twang of a sitar. The magic number, I learned, is 24*.

I was first introduced to the stuff on my family's weekend excursions to far flung corners of Japan, when my father would slip in the occasional Ravi Shankar CD as the backseat bickering between my younger sister and I bordered on unbearable. Back then ragas took on the role of a stern warning--the melodic precursor to a scolding.

As I matured, the intricate rhythms became synonymous with meals at our favorite Indian restaurants (to this day, a Chaurasia flute tune leaves me craving a deep-fried paneer pakora) often smothered by cacophonous dinner table conversations, not getting the showcase it deserved.

But this past weekend, ensconced in a plush seat, amidst the sustained silence of Carnegie Hall--give or take the occasional loud cougher...free Ricolas in the lobby, people!--I watched, entranced, as a petite figure in a swash of pomegranate pink and violet silk (ironically enough, the word "raga," is derived from the Sanskrit term for color and passion) strutted her way to center stage and offered the audience an exuberant namaskar. Perched on an elevated platform, she cradled her sitar, eyes half-closed and head cocked endearingly to the side. The gentle pitter patter of carefully constructed chords served as the lead-up to a more guttural, thunderous crescendo. The young virtuoso was soon joined by an orchestra of 34, a conglomeration of flutes, clarinets,oboes and violins, whose instruments momentarily criss-crossed cities, from the icy banks of the Hudson to its bustling counterpart along the Varanasi.

I was at an Anoushka Shankar concert, watching the young and overwhelmingly talented artist collaborate with the NYC-based Orpheus Chamber Music Orchestra, a unique musical transaction penned by her legendary father, the sitar maestro himself. I was most impressed by the way the orchestra instruments, Western in origin, took on a second life as they traded their typical harmonies for a highly amorphous musical form, which is "not a tune, melody, scale, mode or any concept for which an English word exists."

The grueling practice sessions behind the concert are chronicled on the Orpheus website, and serve as a candid portrayal of a cryptic musical journey, for those musicians being acquainted with the raga (and all its bells and whistles) for the first time. Rather than getting lost in translation, though, the two musical forms, when combined, were able to infuse one another with greater meaning.

*This was also how old I was when I discovered I could appreciate Autumn foliage along the Merritt Parkway, eat contentedly at a restaurant solo and kind of enjoy getting up early on Saturday mornings.

An Epicurean Affair

2009-01-10T11:55:00.001-05:00

This post is dedicated to a fellow foodie and my friend, Dave. Wish you were here!

Combing through a mountainous heap of press releases at my new internship (a temporary stint at the Metro newspaper) I do a double take upon seeing the "Saveur" logo emblazoned across an e-mail. It's a food magazine I've come to revere lately, for its worldly sensibilities, commitment to simple--and almost primordial--home-cooking and breathtaking layout. The mag released its acclaimed 100 must-have food items list, aka, The Saveur 100, last week and I'm psyched to know that the big cheese himself, James Oseland, is available for interviews. A flurry of phone calls leads me to an enjoyable conversation with the Epicure-in-chief, a pleasant and spirited gentleman with a penchant for pressure cookers, DIY ketchup and Indonesian fare.

Upon identifying my desi connection, James fills me in on an Ahmedabad trip he took last year to shoot a spread on Gujarati cooking. "It's really a work of art," he gushes, forcing me to re-examine a world of cuisine I've apathetically consumed for the majority of my life, never really paying special attention to seemingly inconsequential details--vibrant flecks of cilantro that accessorize most vegetable dishes, the glittery film that coats traditional date and nut rolls (aka, varak, or thin sheets of pounded silver) and even the Zen-like patience required to sprout lentils, a prominent feature in many typical Gujarati meals. James excitedly informs me that the article will most likely run next year, and before I know it, he's inviting me and a guest to a Saveur event the following evening, a celebration in honor of the 10th anniversary of the publication's hit 100 list. Rumor has it that a secret 101st item will also be announced that night.

The next evening, with my favorite foodie in tow (thanks, Raj) I find myself in a crowded test kitchen midtown, bowled over by the scent of caramelized onions and baked goat cheese. Saveur's breathtaking evening menu includes a tart, made with the aforementioned ingredients, a succulent veggie lasagna, a pork and white bean cassoulet, bite-sized black and white brownies, and the piece de resistance--two oversized cheese trays, overflowing with slivers and slices of cheddar, brie and camembert, sprinkled with unlikely embellishments including thyme and parsley. We can hardly contain ourselves as we join a line full of fellow food journalists and wide-eyed plus ones, eagerly clutching their disposable bamboo plates (attractive AND biodegradable? I'm digging this!). Mid-bite, I spot an animated man in a breezy, carrot-colored Balinese shirt, ushering crowds of people towards the dinner spread. We walk over and introduce ourselves to James, while I share a Saveur-inspired anecdote: months ago, Raj and I ditched an afternoon of what was, in theory, supposed to be wedding planning and opted to churn our own butter instead, thanks to an intriguing recipe from the magazine (try it, it reads more like a magical potion than a set of instructions). James laughs appreciatively, chats for a minute or two, asking me when his interview will be published, and thanks us for coming before resuming to mingle.

During the course of that delicious evening, we warmly laud the announcement of the highly anticipated 101st item on the Saveur list (parchment paper), catch a glimpse of the Italian home-cooking sensation, Lidia Bastianich, and even squeeze in a quick, jittery hello with one of my all-time favorite writers, Suketu Mehta--needless to say, those few hours were rich with all the ingredients for a night to remember.

Stay tuned for a Metro NY piece on the Saveur 100, scheduled to run on Jan 21, 2009.

Mission: Irresponsible

2008-12-11T12:34:00.000-05:00

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'

2008-12-02T11:20:00.000-05:00

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

2008-11-07T08:38:00.001-05:00

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

2008-09-24T12:04:00.001-04:00

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

2008-08-08T01:24:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-11T09:40:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-26T18:02:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-10T05:00:00.000-04:00

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

2008-05-16T09:53:00.001-04:00

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

2008-05-01T00:02:00.000-04:00

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

2008-04-16T14:10:00.000-04:00

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

2008-04-01T11:48:00.000-04:00

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...

2008-03-22T19:53:00.000-04:00

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

2008-01-06T09:55:00.000-05:00

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.

Wedded Bliss, The Municipal Way

2007-12-29T08:23:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-25T20:57:00.001-05:00

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

2007-12-17T04:40:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-12T01:49:00.000-05:00

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"

2007-12-07T04:53:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-05T11:01:00.000-05:00

"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?"

2007-12-05T09:31:00.000-05:00

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.

The Downsides of Diaspora

2007-09-14T09:10:00.000-04:00

I'm discovering a serious role model in Azadeh Moaveni, author of "Lipstick Jihad," a book I'd repeatedly rolled my eyes at for its frothy title, convinced it was a dilettante's effort to serve up current events in processed, bite-sized pieces. I was wrong. When curiosity finally got the best of me during a Borders run last week, I sucked it up, got a Members Rewards card (finally) and skeptically turned to the opening pages. Though I'm only half way, I'm hooked on Moaveni's prose--it's honest, eye-opening and so accessible, without whittling down its subject matter--growing up Iranian in America and American in Iran. With that being said, I'm still not digging the title and wonder why such a gifted writer succumbed to a shallow marketing ploy...it screams "STEREOTYPE!" and contradicts pretty much all the identity-related subtelties and nuances Moaveni discusses throughout her memoir. I can't decide what's worse--the cover image of a Iranian woman in a headscarf, clutching a cell phone or the "i" in Jihad, which has been replaced by--really--a tube of lipstick. Opinions?

Spanakopita : An Obsession

2007-06-25T00:00:00.000-04:00

At the risk of sounding freakishly Rachel Rayish, my relationship with this flaky, Greek goodie started in a dining hall on Mt. Olympus Drive (<--how weirdly appropriate) at Syracuse University. The usual "cereal-bagel-and whatever other carbs I can cram onto my tray" diet was getting old, and I couldn't help but gravitate towards the gleaming, golden triangles, basking under the neon cafeteria lights. What began as an impulsive decision soon became a full-fledged filo fetish and only grew when I moved to Astoria, Queens, about a year ago...as I scoured the city, searching for the perfect pie, I inadvertantly put together a "Best Of" list
which you are treated to here. Thank me later ;).

1. THE NEPTUNE DINER (3105 Astoria Blvd Astoria, NY, 11102)
Voted "The Best Diner in Queens" (and that's a credential!), The Neptune boasts a delicious spanakopita, crammed with herbs and feta, accompanied by a delicious side salad...so all you Manhattan snobs, wrinkling your noses at the thought of crossing the Queensboro Bridge, stick it out on an N train for an extra 15 minutes and you will not be sorry.

2.ATHENS CAFE (3207 30th Ave Astoria, NY 11102)
Maybe its the breezy ambience that adds an extra sumthin-sumthin to their version of spinach pie, but whatever the ingredient, Athens's authentic rendition (no side salad)can be enjoyed while people-watching in the heart of Astoria. The added bonus:
The cafe's star waiter, whom I've dubbed "Superman," for his breakneck water pouring skills.

3.RAINBOW FALAFEL (26 E 17th St, New York 10003)
A trusted,fellow connoiseur tells me that this blink-and-you'll-miss-it Union Square joint is his ultimate mood lifter, thanks to their impeccable crust, straddling the line between flaky and firm...and their falafels aren't bad, either.

Shaa'ir & Func

2007-06-05T22:39:00.000-04:00

So I schlepped over to interview this up-and-coming rock duo, "Shaa'ir & Func" for my freelancing gig at Nirali. If stage-fright had an anti-thesis, it'd be Shaa'ir, aka, Monica Dogra. She's the gorgeous, passionate and astonishingly articulate lead singer and Func's her uber-talented boyfriend, Randolph Correia, whose kind of a big deal back in Bombay, thanks to his band Pentagram (http://www.dnaindia.com/report.asp?NewsID=1090820). At the risk of sounding creepy, they are intoxicating. Not sure if its Monica's soothing voice (even when she's not singing), Randolph's way of making everything sound effortlessly profound or the fact that they met, fell in love, and formed a band (WHOSE JEALOUS?!? can you say modern-day fairy-tale??). They said they wrote most of their album, "New Day," when they were doing the long distance thing for a whopping 5 months--her in New York, him in Bombay. She mentioned a particularly inspiring poem by someone called Veronica Shofstall, something about learning the difference between chaining a soul and holding a hand. We chatted over cappuccinos, which Randolph, very sweetly whipped up in their cozy upper west side apartment. All in all, a fabulous way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.

Stay tuned for a full-fledged article on www.niralimagazine.com

PS: I hate my tape-recorder for shutting down half-way through our two hour interview.

The Best Elevator Music I Ever Heard (aka, "An Ode to the Cosbys")

2007-06-04T10:36:00.001-04:00

I still remember the humble beginnings to my Cosby Show affliction. I had just finished the 2nd grade, and was spending the summer in a monsoon-soaked Mumbai. While my mom was out on her routine sari shop expedition, my younger sister, Anisha and I would choose the stay-at-home option, which usually involved a pathetic attempt at channel surfing (this was before the glitzy MTV Desi days) and staring out the window of our Nani's 8th floor apartment, overlooking the gusty Arabian Sea. On one such listless afternoon, Anisha and I came across a dusty set of video tapes, tucked away in the bottom shelf of the VCR. Intrigued--and hopelessly bored--we popped a tape in. And there they were. The Cosbys. In their immaculate Brooklyn home with their perpetually stocked refrigerator (sidenote: what was with the never-ending supply of apple juice? and who did the groceries?). In my eyes, they were sheer perfection--they showed me that a dad could willingly stay at home and take care of his feverish five-year-old, that a pet fish is entitled to a funeral, and that there's no problem that a bacon burger dog can't solve.

And so, in honor of the Cosbys...

-Huxtapalooza- (<--okay so I stole that from a Nick at Nite special but its cute, no?)

Best Line: "She's late, but looks good. You're just late!" (The community center dude, Chester, on Cliff's tardiness)

Best Guest Character: Mrs. Westlake (The dragon lady, aka Theo's geometry teacher who receives a "Get Well" card in the shape of a parallelogram)

...TBC...

Just a Ride?

2007-06-03T18:11:00.000-04:00

It's just a ride, it's just a ride
no need to run, no need to hide
It'll take you round and round
Sometimes you're up
sometimes you're down
It's just a ride, it's just a ride
don't be scared
don't hide your eyes
It may feel so real inside
but don't forget it's just a ride
-JEM-

I think I'm getting old.

I genuinely enjoy "Everybody Loves Raymond"--a show I swore I would never add to my list of must see TV--can no longer finish gin & tonics--a drink I effortlessly guzzled in college--and write my parents long e-mails on a fairly regular basis. What's up with that? And so, committed to reconnect with my kickass, young, fun, self, I did what any unemployed 23-year-old, teetering on the verge of a quarter-life crisis would do. I went to Six Flags.

Determined to find the ultimate thrill ride, hours of consideration led my two friends and I to "Kingda Ka", a colossal, lime-green serpent of a catapult, which promised "a 129-foot hill designed to induce negative-G weightlessness." (Yeah, I'm not sure either, but sign me up for anything that has the phrase "negative-G" in it). After 2 hours of inching along in line, in 90-degree weather, we strapped on our harnesses, willed ourselves not to puke-up the overpriced pizza slices we'd had for lunch, and prepared for the next 32 seconds--a blur of speed, wind and blood-curdling screams. If you don't believe me, look for yourself.

I'm still dizzy.