A Narration of Melancholic Elation

[Listening to Ulrich Schnauss]

Back to catnaps, cockroaches, ceiling fans, handkerchiefs, luke warm drinking water, clean boxer briefs, and humidity. If that makes even the slightest coherent sense, then cool.

Saying that the weather in Calcutta is scorching, sweltering, & sultry doesn’t really do it justice. I take three “cold” showers a day - cold in quotations because the pipes don’t give you the option to actually receive anything cold enough to give the body a jolt from the chilled sensation. Then as soon as I step out of the shower, beads of sweat have already started to form, and I’m not sure what purpose my towel is playing as I attempt to dry off.

When I walk down Chowingee, I usually have to kick myself for forgetting my handkerchief. I mean, I normally never need (woah triple n!) one but since my face is dripping for a better part of the afternoon here, its can be quite annoying to not have something to dry off with. I guess I should just pay another 10 rupees for a new one right? At times I don’t even know that I’m perspiring profusely (it really just brings a grin to my face because it’s so unbelievable… but I go to scratch my face, and wind up wiping it instead. Or I look in the mirror and go “Woah, what happened!?!?” The two interesting things I noticed about humidity:

1) For the first time in my life I don’t need chapstick. It’s bizarre.

2) After a while, my sweat is no longer salty… I guess it just loses the concentration of salt that normal sweat has.

I just returned back to Calcutta, after going to Darjeeling and Sikkim for about 10 days. It was quite refreshing to get struck by fog instead of humidity. Ice cold water out of taps that leaves your body in a state of shock. And hot water showers felt worthy for the first time in months. But I was desperately in need of a shower when I got back to Esplanade station, Calcutta - after a 60 hour hiatus. You best believe I was bringing the funk Oatey.

I visited my pops old school, St. Pauls, in Darjeeling. Class of 1966 baby. It’s a beautiful place perched high atop the hills and winding roads. I saw the tea plantations at Happy Valley, grubbed many momos, drank too much tea, and had some beers with some travellers at Joey’s pub.

I left for Gangtok, Sikkim after a few days. I’ve seen cities & villages like its nobody’s business in India, and I was dying to see some natural beauty in the form of mountains, lakes, & rivers. It was pretty cloudy with sporadic hits of rain in Gangtok, so I tried to just relax, add some chowmein to my momos, & figure out some plans for leaving Gangtok.

In the process I met 4 ladies from Iceland and got to know one of them pretty well. She’s been working in Baroda, Gujarat for the past year with another Icelander and they are now both travelling for a bit with their other friends who came to India. I was less than certain that they were speaking German when I started some conversation up with, “Where in Germany are y’all from?” “No, we’re from Iceland.” Damnit, I just lost my citizen of the world status…I should be able to tell German from Icelandic, right?

My knowledge of Iceland is far from good. Hmmm, puffins tend to get lost in the winter, and they have some good music coming from there: Bjork, Sigur Ros, & Mum.
Turns out Bjork wasn’t famous in Iceland until her international stardom and then she became “Our Bjork” after people back home realized her status.
“People from Iceland are cocky and we think that we are the best at everything.”
They all agreed & felt happy that Iceland had not joined the European Union. It was keeping its independence from the Europeanization of the continent.
“It’s good in many respects but bad in others. Some feel that we are missing out on trade opportunities and that we’ll be left behind. Another negative is that we have to pay higher tuition prices to go to college anywhere outside Iceland in Europe.”

Although Iceland has kept its “independence” from the EU, its interesting that their only army is a US military base. You can bet this is a divisive issue over there - “Are we better off without them here? Does that make us a target or is it beneficial to have them on our side?”

That one Baroda-Icelandic girl is currently applying for masters programs in Globalization/Development & Politics around the United Kingdom. She’s lived in England, Guatemala, Norway, and now India for extensive periods of time. I thought her experience in Guatemala for 1 year when she was 18 was quite touching. She came back home to Iceland after the one year expecting to hug, kiss, and be affectionate with her family and friends…but forgot that Nordic culture is not analagous with that of Latinos.

We enjoyed some great, playful banter over some beers and a fellow from New York teased them like crazy about being from Iceland, butchering the pronunciations of Bjork & Leaf Erickson. Definitely not pronounced LEAF as became obvious from the mouths of the Icelandic ones. The New Yorker, my fellow “Yanqui”, definitely wasn’t helping me try and kill the American stereotype.

From Gangtok I headed to western Sikkim, but I’ll have more on that adventure in another post.

I think we people need time away from the grind, turmoil, & monotony that life can throw us into. I was only in Calcutta for a couple weeks, but felt myself getting into kind of a rut/routine, especially being here in the thick of the heat and at my Grandparent’s place. But after going up North for a while, I feel a new sense of happiness, awareness, & satisfaction for being back in CAL. I’m ready for the hagglers, shop keepers, passerbys, humidity. I’m here with a renewed sense of love for people. I think workers of the world need to take more weekend trips & breaks - come back home to work feeling refreshed & ready to take on the task at hand

As I walked around town this evening and headed down Lindsay Street, cut through to Suddar, and then on to Free School Street, I was saying to myself, “Damn, the market is popping right now.” It was 7 o’clock and street vendors were calling out their prices to folk bustling down the street. It was crowded as hell and bustling with life & excitement. Ohhh, it’s Saturday! People looking to consume anything if the price is right and others looking to slang something if the price is decent. Dare I try this Kati roll or Sikh kebab off the street? After 4 1/2 months my stomach might struggle a bit, but my boldness & confidence won’t hesitate as much. Ohhh, it’s good to be back & caught in the grip of yet another city.

In the tourist circuit of Rajisthan, backpackers can be seen gathered in the evenings at the rooftop cafe of their hotels. Conversations usually go from, “How long are you in India?” to “So what are people in Ireland like?” to “How do Germans feel about Bush?” to talking about other travel experiences, gripes with India, and the beautiful aspects too.

Generalizations & stereotypes cram their way into as many comments as possible. They can be note-worthy and helpful, confusing because they contradicted a previous notion, or complete bullshit because from experience, you know they are wrong.

[Even recently, my own opinion from experience backfired on me. My new friend Vikrum Sequeira asked me for my thoughts on Goa..I told him about my experience…the good things, but I also told him that I wasn’t that impressed by the number of women, and that there were a high number of Indian men in groups on the prowl for some loving. Vikrum had the complete opposite experience - many single women & not many Indian dudes on the hunt. I was happy that he doused my perspective with the alternate.]

I met so many people during my three week run there (Rajisthan), but it was extremely difficult to tell when a connection is made. You could meet someone once for ten minutes or see them a few times and have several conversations - but it’s hard to separate the interesting from the mundane at times, and when have we reached the mutual point of thinking “Yeah cool, I actually want to stay in touch with you and exchange email addresses”? It makes me appreciate the solid friendships I have back home and the few amazing connection I’ve had from brief encounters & interactions while in India.

One evening in Mt. Abu, the only hill station in the state of Rajisthan, I was chillin’ on the rooftop of my hotel with a bunch of travellers, mostly from the U.K. A couple of them had indulged in some bung lassi, and so they were off talking about Pet Shop Boys, London, and other topics. I wasn’t really into the convo that much so I turned to a group sitting next to us and introduced myself. Instantly, one of the fellas in this bunch drew me into his thoughts with brutal honesty:

“I hate India. I hate the food, the people, everything. People here do everything half-ass, nothing is done “the best.” I have no respect for Indians. An Indian would sell his mother for one rupee. But you…you are not Indian, you are American. You are completely American.”

“I guess,” I shrugged, “but I am Indian.”

“Really?” he replied. “Do you speak Hindi?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you religious?”

“Nope.”

“Then what makes you Indian??” He asked this with a cheeky red face and a slight grin passing through the flush.
Wow, this Israeli fella had me completely stumped. “What makes me Indian?” And better yet, his follow up question was, “What is Indian?” “Because anything that’s nice & well-constructed is of British production.”
He was sitting there with 3 other Israelis. Traditionally, after finishing their two year term in the army, Israelis come to travel in India. They go to places like Pushkar, Vagator in Goa, and a few others, and can live lavishly on the rupee, although most are on a strict budget - just like most young travellers here.
He had read V.S. Naipaul and felt that his eyes were being cheated from what he had envisioned through reading.
Well, I tried my best to avoid his question and address my concern with his strong disgust for the country.

“Well, how long have you been travelling in India?” I asked him.

“Less than two weeks, just here in Rajisthan.”

“Well, Rajisthan is a rough place to get an all-encompassing view of India from. People here are like vultures and want everything they can possible from the many tourists coming here.”

He answers, “Yeah, they have their Ganesh on the wall and are willing to rip me off for 10 rupees (25 cents). That’s the height of religious hypocrisy!”

“Yeah, that’s something I wonder about.”

A British guy chimed in, “Yeah, but you gotta do what you gotta do to survive. And even though 10 rupees doesn’t sound like much to you, it is to him. And it can add up from all the people he pulls it from.”

I then asked him, “So what’s your beef with the food?” (I surely didn’t phrase it like that, but I might as well have).

“Well, the food is terrible. I only eat to survive another day. This Thali stuff is crap…I love my meat and am missing it like crazy.”

“Yeah, I feel you on that. I mean thali can get a bit monotonous after a while. But have you ever had Tandoori Chicken? Mutton Biryani? Sikh Kebab?

“Uhh, no, vhat’s that?”

“See come on now. You can’t generalize Indian food by the vegetarian food in Rajisthan. It’s completely different from the veg in the South and carnivorous grub throughout.”

I felt bad for the guy. He still had a few months left of travelling in the subcontinent and he was set on his feelings and not looking forward to the rest of his adventure. He also hated Coelho’s The Alchemist and Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being. Definitely not an optimist. He would not respect an Indian and when I asked him, “So do you respect ‘An American’?” He retorted with a “No. He is selfish and only looking for personal gain.” Extreme views he had many, generalizations he had them, too. But there was something about him that intigued me and I wanted to know his views on even more things. I hope I can find his email and see how his trip has progressed.

I know that nationalism is created by having a shared historical experience(s) and since I’ve obviously not grown up here, I have no Indian national identity. It’s gotta be something more than the color of my skin and the fact that “I like the food.”

I didn’t get to answering his question although I felt like answering his question with a question: “What makes you Israeli?”
If I learn Hindi and become religious, then am I suddenly Indian. By this time next year, I could be Indian, yes!

“India is both heaven and hell,” a Dutch man tells me on the train from Bangalore to Madras (Chennai). And this is so damn true. It can be a brutally difficult place for travellers with the language barrier, the scorch, “vultures”, etc. It is a rough place for the native as well, but even after travelling outside of his home the Indian national knows that there is something that keeps him on the soil of the subcontinent. Even if he/she had the money to move to the States he wouldn’t (Yes, I’m generalizing now - there are plenty of Indians wanting to come and make it in the States). They know the mentality, the rat race, the social norms, the people. There’s something that causes him to kiss the street when he returns home from abroad.

Generalizations can be helpful but many of the ones I’ve heard can now be squashed. It’s like when Mister Muckerjee asked me, “So what are American girls like.” I could tell him that they’re pretty superficial, blonde, dumb, etc. But come on!!, I don’t know what the prototype of an American woman is. I feel like I know some very intelligent, ambitious, beautiful, and progressive females so that completely annhilates any stereotype that can be made regarding American women.

Back to India being both heaven and hell. It’s those hellacious facets that make the heavenly ones that much more intense & awesome. Unfortunately, we human beings tend to remember/accentuate/emphasize the negative qualities & experiences. I feel like I might do that as well in conversation, but I try not to.

It kills me when women (particularly foreign travellers) tell me about the harassment they receive in India. It causes me to feel ill, shame, and contempt for the Indian male. One of the Icelandic girls in Gangtok told me that of Latin America, Africa, and India - India was by far the worst sexual harrassment she’d experienced. That’s terrible and causes me to take a completely opposite & chill approach during my social interactions with females - meaning I try to act like I don’t ven notice that they are there. India seems to be in multiple transitions, especially in the social realm. Men are not used to women wearing skirts & tanktops so they don’t know how to react. But wait!!..isn’t the entire mid-section shown when a sari is worn!!Can you say double-standard? Or is there just that universal myth that foreign women are “easy.” It’s ridiculous that guys here will get a cheap thrill from brushing up against a woman. Then what? Does he go up to his buddies and say, “Hey, I came within 5 inches of her boob man (accent included).

Vikrum talks about a “vivacious” Londoner he met he Palolem Beach, Goa. She tells him:

“I was in Rajastan during Holi. It was not easy. Holi seems to be an excuse for Indian men to molest women. One man ran up to me, threw rang in my face, grabbed my face, and then moved his hands down and groped my breasts. Another guy ran up to me, threw color in my face, and grabbed my crotch. I punched both of them afterwards.
In Calcutta people would walk up to me and say, ‘Are you married? No? Do you want to have sex with me?’ But I slapped those guys as well.”

My point from all this is that it’s quite unfortunate when a foreigner goes back home, forgets the phenomenal aspects of their experience in India, and only conveys/reiterates/expresses the negative - like male groping. I’m even sure that when I return could and rattle off my peeves that I have to my friends… but I hope I can balance it out with the other end of the spectrum. I also hope that the Indian man can evolve and be calm with the progress & liberation of women in India.

Nationalism is an infantile disease. It is the measles of mankind.” ~Albert Einstein

[Listening to DNTEL]

“It’s a very nostalgic place”, a guy on a bus ride from Poona to Bangalore tells me. He grew up here and each time he returns he’s thrown back into his childhood. “Bombay is much like New York. Maybe even a bit like San Francisco. But Calcutta is more like Berlin or Milan.”

When people ask me, “Where in India are you from?” I tell them that my family is from Calcutta. Since I haven’t been here for twelve years, I was excited tofinally see it with older, wiser eyes, and now to be able and compare it with the many big Indian cities I’ve now seen: Bombay, Delhi, Jaipur, Johdpur, Surat, Poona, Bangalore.

177 Lenin Sarani, where my grandparents live, is a a 5 story building in Central Calcutta. On the ground floor is Temple Bar, second floor is Saqi Restaurant - both established by Cavas Ardesher, my great-great Grandfather in 1871. During the second world war, it was the place that sailors first headed to when they got into Calcutta: a place to drown yourself in away from sea and surely get lucky for a low fee. It’s now a seedy spot, quite popular with the hard working, scruffy male crowd. On the third floor is an office space for secretaries, fourth floor residence, and fifth floor terrace/office/garden.

My first morning in Calcutta I wake up and decide to head out and walk around the city. I had heard of an old cafe (though newly rennovated and looking like a Tiffany’s gift shop) called Flury’s, on the popular Park Street, so I duck down five flights, and hit the street. Woah, cultural shock after 3 and a half months in India! I get this feeling like I’ve just stepped into Eastern Europe or Cuba. The old Ambassador classic vehicles, the crumbling buildings, the hammer & sickle graffitied on walls (The Communist party has maintained rule in the state of West Bengal for the last 26 odd years). Most of the days have been quite muggy, so maybe that’s a another cause to feeling like I’m in a city living in the cold war. It’s a beautiful, interesting place and I see the positives & negatives, though not through any sort of crystal clear lens just yet.

As I walk down Chowringee Street (previously called Jawalal Nehru Road), my eyes feel the need to move rapidly around the 180 degree scope set before me. Stores are lined on one end of the sidewalk while street vendors inhabit the other end of the same sidewalk. These street slangers are selling hundreds of items (boxers, belts, behl puri, books..and everything else that starts with the letter B) along this “sidewalk” filled with potholes, as people walk in both directions. I have to make sure I don’t trip in a pothole, so I have to constantly keep an eye floating down to scan my path, as I manuveur my way around & past people, while trying to get a glimpse of all the items for sale, along with all the interactions taking place, and all the different faces saying something through facial expression without opening their mouth.

In India people don’t give a flying you know what. They are the most curious bastards I’ve seen and there is no shame in the amount they express. Strangers passing by will give you a 10 second look-over/stare down without the least discretion. Since you are in a public space, people feel like you are on display, and can be observed & scrutinized as need be. There’s times where I just want to say, “What the bloody hell are you looking at man? I’ve had a long day bro, back the bleep off.” This means that if you are a women or a white foreigner, you are going to get it 100 times worse. More about this gripe and others later.

It’s a fascinating stroll: The reminance of British rule & architecture. The look & feel of a city woven with patches of Marxism…but the threads slowly coming undone as captitalist enterprise sews some shiny new material to an old cotton quilt.

I had tea on Thursday with an old friend of my father’s Samir, his wife Anita, and a famous Indian author, Amit Chauduri. Samir was stricken with polio 45 years a go, so at home is where he spends his days, writing articles for The Telegraph, and reading fine literature. These folk along with my Grandmother & many others, like to fondly reminisce on the days of the British in Calcutta. Much of our conversations during the evening dreamt off to over fifty years a go.

“This isn’t the days of the British,” Samir says with a sigh and a look of reflection. “Today, you can’t even walk on the sidewalk, due to the potholes. The education system can’t even compare.” He speaks with this pleasant British accent and his vocabulary is astounding.
“There’s no sophistication these days. People spit, defecate on the streets, litter without regard for anything.”
In an article written for “The Telegraph” of Calcutta starts off:

Their ways were impeccable, their manners elegant. Samir Mukerjee recalls individuals shaped by days of the Raj-

Westernized indians have become an extinct species now and with them gone, an entire way of life has been obliterated. During British rule, the sun shone on them and they never put a foot wrong as far as their own values were concerned.

My mother’s friend Sudhira Bhagat, better known as Cissy Bhagat, was one such extraordinary example of a smart, elegant, soigné and sophisticated lady who left an indelible imprint on the minds of those who had the good fortune of knowing her.

I admire Samir and enjoy hearing his stories, reading his articles, and analyzing his theories/generalizations. But part of me dislikes these snooty Western admirers who are living in the past and detesting the present; people who are so stuck in the past, knowing they’ve lived in the best of times. I’ll be meeting him a few more times before I leave CAL, so I’ll get a clearer picture of his beliefs I’m sure. As for Amit Chauduri, I’m reading his book “A New World” and its a damn good depiction of people in Calcutta.

[Written during the first week of April, just a few days before reaching Dandi, Gujarat]

I decided not to walk today with the Yatris because I wanted to get to the city of Navsari as early as possible. This place has much historical relevance as far as Parsi history goes. The Parsis first landed in the city of Sanjan, just south of Navsari, in the 6th century. Navsari became the first place that they resided in. Today 3-4,000 Parsis live here, an old library with old manuscripts and literature related to Zoroastrianism/Parsis, a Parsi hospital, a college, and one of the holiest fire temples. I got a ride with Sudhir and Rupalee of the Mahatma Gandhi Foundation and we entered the small city around 9:00 a.m. I felt quite excited for a day of exploring and learning more about my Parsi heritage and seeing old relics.

(If you would like to check out an excellent photographic essay on Parsis, click HERE. Her “brief history on Parsis” is really consise & well-done)

After grubbing a samosa and sipping a couple cups of chai, I found the nearest rickshaw and asked him to take me to Atash Behram in Taeota Bazaar. As we veered around the corner I saw the Igari (Fire temple), its impressive stature, and I realized that I was more nervous than excited. Parsis are much lighter skinned than typical Indians because of their Iranian roots. My father and his side of the family are distinctly Parsi, whereas I am not. I knew that they would not allow me inside this sacred fire temple if I was not Parsi and that I would have to prove myself, which might be difficult.

I walked up to the gate where 4 Parsi men were sitting with their topees (similar to a Yamaka) on their heads. I told them that I was a Parsi-Indian-American participating in the Salt March, and wanted to go inside the temple. There were two guys (let’s call them bitter old man A and B).

A: Can you identify youself as a Parsi?

Me: Well, I don’t wear the Sudreh (sacred shirt made of pure white muslin) and Kusti (72 woven threads of lamb’s wool). But my name is Revaz Farok Ar-de-sher ( I then presented my California ID and recited 15 words of the prayer. Ardesher is a very Parsi name so that’s why I stressed my name)

A: You are not Parsi. Anyone can study the prayers. And you could have changed your name to the one on this ID card. People will do anything to satisfy their curiousity of Parsis.

Me: Anyone can buy a Sudreh and Kusti. If I wear a sudreh and kusti tomorrow am I more Parsi then?

A: I’m sorry, you are not Parsi. People are born Parsi, Christian, or Jewish. You cannot change who you are. A Parsi parent would insist that their children wear the Sudreh and kusti. Why do you not wear it?

Me: I had my Navjote when I was 7, but wearing a sudreh and kusti is not socially or culturally acceptable in the U.S. If a Parsi woman were wearing a dress or skirt, how can she have a thread hanging down her leg? Even in Bombay, most kids I’ve met don’t wear sudreh & kusti.

A: No, women can still wear a saree with sudreh & kusti and I’m sure more than 90% of the Parsi youth in Bombay are wearing it.

B: Do you know the prayer?

Me: (I recited the prayer again)

B: Nope, still don’t believe you.

Me: Then why the hell did you just ask me??

A: There are a couple questions we ask people before entering and you are not a Parsi.

I felt so sad and dejected that my head hung lower than it has in a long time. My feet dragged as I walked along the perimeter of the temple and I felt the whispers of people nearby as they asked the men what I wanted. I hopped back in the rickshaw and I felt my sadness turn to anger. The classic end to a negative episode for me: I think of things I should have said and it fuels the blood in veins to boil for a while. I wanted to tell the richshaw driver to turn around. I wanted to write a letter to the Zorastrian Association or someone.
This would be like a Jew not being allowed into a synagogue because they are not wearing a yamaka (maybe they aren’t allowed to, I don’t know. But they shouldn’t be told that they are not Jewish because of it) or a Christian not allowed entry into a church because they don’t have a cross around their neck.
I might not be a pious Parsi, but I should still be considered as one and allowed to enter its holy sites right? I was pretty heated and upset about this incident for many days. I talked about it with people and there were mixed reactions. In some ways, I now feel that maybe they were doing the right thing. Wearing the Sudreh & Kusti is the most important ritual in the Zoroastrian religion and if I don’t partake in that daily routine, then I shoudn’t be considered as one. Right? I’m still trying sift through my current feelings of Paris culture. With only 100,000 worldwide, they are dying as quickly as any other endangered species. Marrying outside is occurring more & more. Are they an elitist social group that considers themselves valuable? They are a rare item and many, especially in the States, have done quite well economically. But many of the ones I have observed in the SF Bay Area are overly snobbish, status driven, Lexus driving pricks, to generalize rudely. Most of my cousins and Parsi friends I’ve met in India are daily prayer sayers and feel it is important for them to marry a Parsi. It’s sad that the community is dying, and they’re working to keep it a live a little longer.

“Even if I didn’t marry a Parsi, I would still want my children to be Zoroastrian. And that would probably cause problems with a woman of different religious orientation. I will rebel against everything else, as far as my parents go. But I feel it is my greatest duty for them, that I marry a Parsi.” - my cousin Rayomond from Poona (Pune)

As I roll through India, trying to grasp hold of my “Indianess”, its been synonamous with my “Parsi-ness”. I do feel it is a beautiful religion. When people used to ask my father about the religion, he would just tell them, “Good thoughts, good words, good deeds.” I think that is a pretty good, simple philosophy to be carried through one’s life.

Even before my experience in Navsari, I have caught myself saying the Parsi prayer in my head from time to time. It was really strange when I first realized I was doing this, but I think I’ve been doing it for years without knowing it. Being in difficult spots during my travels has caused me to seek outside help and being aware of this has caused me to think…..Wow, am i really a believer?? I would have said I was agnostic as the last few years have gone by (after hearing a guy recently say, “Well, I’m agnostic ya know?” with that SoCal surfer accent, I don’t think I’m ever going to say that again), but this isn’t true.

I have been confronted with my Parsi dilemma. I’ve felt like I want to be accepted more by these people, and I only can if I wear the correct attire, speak Gujarati, and marry inside the clan. It’s quite analagous to wanting to be accepted by Indians - knowing hindi, living in here, and marrying an Indian.

Just some thoughts to munch on later I guess. I think I just have to make sure that I do things in life for the right reasons - for myself and not for the acceptance of another group.

A poem my sister Rochelle wrote a few weeks ago…

Inner Peace
A Response to Octavio Paz’s “The Other”

Shanti, Shanti
The Truth is: WE ARE ONE.
Connected by space,
Dispersed through time.

Oh distant brother,
One day we shall meet
And vague memories of familial ties
Will coincide with the life not destined for me.
To unite childhood impressions
Perpetually persisting,
Absorbed by loose tea leaves brewed to perfection
Only to quench another rejection.
They built me a dam, and you but a bridge,
Creating a nest for a fertilized creation.

Oh Shanti my friend,
It is through foreign lenses,
That I vicariously experience what should be innate
Patience is a virtue so I sit here and wait…
and wait…
For I was created and shipped to the West
And it’s here I reside: a label consumed on the back of your neck.

Face to face
Dear Shanti, you’ll see
A universal minority
Navigates through this majority.
Striving to be seen as someone other than merely “exotic.”
So squint your eyes f u r t h e r than ever before
And you’ll see that Truth is far greater
Than what lies at the seams.

I know of your ruins,
The tongue of your mother,
The depth of your roots,
The pain of your land.
But until you embody the here and the now,
You continue to view an imaginative me.
And me unto you,
I reciprocate such a decree,
Determined to release some intangible dream,
To belong to a world so different from me.

Shanti, Shanti
The Truth is: WE ARE ONE.
Inventing a space
Waiting for time.

April 18, 2005