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.

“Life’s hard, life’s easy, life’s everything in between, life’s peachy like James and the Giant…”- Aesop Rock

I left Mt Abu on March 9th, arrived in Ahmedabad by evening, and took a rickshaw to the Gandhi Ashram. Noone in India has known about this 75th anniversary of the Dandi march, and as the bus rode & entered Rajisthan from Gujarat… only then did I finally see billboards advertising the event.
In 1930, Gandhi and 78 folks set out from Ahmedabad to Dandi - 241 miles - an act of civil disobedience, to protest the Britishs’ recent monopoly on the production and selling of salt. Salt was basically free prior, so for the government to increase its price by many times with a monopoly was an outrage.
The irony in this 75th anniversary, is that the government in Gujarat is currently seeking to increase the tax on salt.
The purpose of this reenactment is to promote peace, justice, and freedom. Unfortunately, politics decided to become greatly involved in the process. The government of Gujarat is a “dry” (alcohol is illegal) state. It is the only one of twenty-four in India with this policy. But of course, people say that this state is the number one consumer of liquor amongst them all. Hmmmmmm. interesting
Let me break it down: Mad liquor is smuggled here. Since it comes in untaxed, it’s dirt cheap. A beer in Bombay is 60 rupees. In Rajisthan 100. Gujarat 40. Gandhi believed alcohol to be detrimental to the mind, body, and soul, so Gujarat (being Gandhi’s home state)) has had prohibition since Independence. With such a volatile political situation here, due to religious animosity and state sponsored terrrorism over the past few years… it’s no wonder that the politics of prohibition are the center of debate.
This is what Parhad and Uncle Rustom both said:
“Prohibition here is silly. Regardless of Gandhi’s ideology, why should Gujarat be the one state to suffer? People will still get the liquor and the government is the biggest loser because they are not collecting on the taxes. And the patrolling to try and control the illegal smuggling is costing them even more money. ”

So I arrived in Ahmedabad, Gujarat with three big things on my to do list:

1) Go to the Sabarmati Ashram and check in with Tushar Gandhi (Gandhi’s great-grandson who is the honcho) regarding specificities on the march.

2) Meet Uncle Rustom and the Postwalla family for the first time.

3) Meet up with Orsi and Kata (the Hungarian girls I met in Goa) again.

So I went to the Gandhi Asshram and talked with Tushar and some fellow foreign participants before walking out front to meet Uncle Rustom’s son, who was picking me up. Prahad rolled up in his skooter, I hopped on with my bags, and we left for the house. Their household is quite amazing: A truly traditional Parsee home- Self-made entrepreneeurs, prayer twice a day, pictures of Zarathushtra everywhere, typical Parsee food…Parhad (age 28) and his Parsee wife both live in the home with their adorable twin daughters, and Hanooz (age 24), Parhad’s younger brother will marry a Parsee and also live in the home and work in the family bussiness.
After spending 3 nights with the Postwalla family (typical Parsee name because it’ss derived from an ancestor’s profession- Postman. Other Parsee popular Parsee last names are Engineer, Contractor, etc.)
It was excellent meeting family for the first tim and I’m gladd to have established this connection with people my age, my religious background, and in a bustling city like Ahmedabad.
It was also super to meet Orsi and Kata again. During my travels thus far, I have made few meaningful connections. People come and they go. Decent conversations happen with daily interactions. Email addresses are exchanged. And that’s usually that. But the five times we have met, enjoyed each other’s company, and conversated… it’s been tremendous. We talk about our lives thus far, our experiences in India, in Hungary, in the States, our past, and future… and especially what Orsi was mentioning - “Our previous conceptions” - in the short 2 months that we’ve been in India our conceptions and previous perceptions have altered. Our expectations have been exceeded. And the most beautiful thing - The meaning of coming and being in India has changed.

So since I tried to spend as much possible time with Parhad, Hanooz, Uncle Rustum, and Orsi & Kata, I neglected my initial obligations of the Dandi March. I was supposed to report and be at the Ashram on March 10th, until the commencement on the morning of the 12th. Instead, I went on the evening of the 11th to get my identification card and get information on the itinerary for the 12th. I was told to be there at 5 a.m., Sonia Gandhi (India Congress President, no relation to Mahatma) would speak at 6:15, andd we would depart by 7.

I got there at 5… and the security was tight as hell… I got into the entrance, with my ID, but wasn’t allowed up front, because it was already full of participants and press. So I sat in the section behind… with all 3 pieces of my luggage. A medium sized backpack, a duffle bag, and a small little carry sack. The luggage was to be carried by a truck for all the participants, but I had no idea where the truck was or who to ask. So I sat anxiously, waiting. All of a sudden, Sonia Gandhi finished and an old Goan man told me “It’s starting, we must go!” I grabbed all my bags and tried to push my way towards to direction of the exit. Swarms of people were doing the same thing, but the police weren’t allowing a budge…but the participants in the front were all making their way out with ease. I was thinking, “Damnit, they are all leaving and I have no idea where the luggage truck is.”
They finally allowed people through an it was chaotic. The street was blocked off and crowds of children in school uniforms were on each side of the street, chanting “Mantrum!!….Gandhi!!”
Large groups were running to make their way to the front. Their are about 400 registered participants, but thousands of Indians are walking in the commencement… and then coming for the end of it.
So here I am…in my Kurta, sandals, and about 50 kilos of weight on my back….walking amongst the crowd and chatting with another NRI (Non-resident Indians) from Pennsylvania. I can hear people cracking up at me everywhere and some asking me, “What are you doing with all that? Don’t you know that there is a vehicle to carry your stuff? Are you going all the way to Dandi like that?”
Finally after a few miles, the India Youth Congress President found me, “You don’t need to carry all that. Give me your duffle bag.” So he gives me his card, hands the bag to a youth volunteer, and I go to grab my backpack from an old man (now my Kaka (uncle), new best friend, and mentor) who was helping me out.
The first day was intense with cheer, chanting, and thousands of people. Media were everywhere - journalists, local news, and many filming documentaries. People were lined up from Ahmedabad to twenty kilometers south…where we camped the first night. I’ll write about the conversations in the next post.

As I roamed the narrow streets of the Blue City (Johdpur), taking snaps of passerbys & shopkeepers with the bright blue walls in the background, I noticed that the pillars throughout the city were filled with posters of Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. I was thinking, “Damn, this dude is bigger than I thought.” I had heard he was a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize, but seeing his picture everywhere put it all in perspective.

I first met Oso in a Latin American Literature discussion class that we had together in the Winter of 2003. I walked into the class early on the first day, looked around, and there was this red-headed Robert Redford looking fellow with a nicely trimmed goatee seated in the last row surfing the net on his labtop (Surprised?). So that’s where we met and that’s where he fell in love with the Grad student, Heidi, who was teaching the section part of the course. No, actually they despised each other with good reason.

From there on out Oso and I met up on campus and played hoops, he introduced me to some of San Diego’s quaintest cafes (starting with Clare de Lune in North Park), and I asked him if he wanted to go hear Sri Sri Ravi Shankar speak. He said “Sounds good,” so we inhaled some dollar fish tacos at Rubio’s one afternoon and went to the spot with our ears ready for some spiritual healing (Remember, this isn’t Ravi Shankar the sitar player).
Unfortuantely, it seemed a little cultish. You had the typical older Americans who are willing to believe any alternative Eastern thought. These folks absolutely worshipped anything Sri Sri touched. But this was an introductory seminar and Sri Sri was not willing to give out any details on his secret path to spiritual awakening.
I recall someone asked him, “Sri Sri, can you explain your breathing exercise that you are so well known for?”
“Just breathe,” Sri Sri answered.
Couldn’t I have gotten that advice from a TelepopMusik song?
Oso and I were sitting there laughing to ourselves. A beautiful, radiant older woman was sitting next to me and I knew I already had her intrigue based on my “alternative skin color.” So I started talking to her and she was fascinated that I was Indian.
“So are you Hindu or Muslim?”
“Well, actually I’m Zoroastrian. It’s the Parsee community that formed and emigrated from Iran to India after persectution in the 8th century (0r was it 6th century).”
“Really, so you’re Persian, too.
“Ummm. Yeah, I guess I am.
“Wow.”
Oso was slyly giggling to himself. The woman, along with everyone else, waited in a ridiculous line for a life-long blessing by the simple touch of Sri Sri, as Oso and I cruised out the double doors.

Around this same period of time, I saw a guy from my high school whom I had never spoken to before. It was at UCSD, we talked for a while. I have never seen anyone get so excited when I told them my last name.
“Ardesher? Ardesher? You are Zoroastrian?! Wow, I gotta call my father. That’s incredible! Let me get your email!”
You can say that this guy Kurosh is a very proud Persian and is one of those people who likes to stick to his own kind. I guess he had reason to celebrate.

The term “nationality” is one that became more baffling to me as the years have gone by. The question, “What is your nationality?” is one that I would normally answer with, “Indian”. But after taking two sociology courses with Professor Andrew Barlow at Diablo Valley College 4 years ago…I know this question has been asked and answered incorrectly. The person asking it meant “What ethnicity are you?”. In that way, it would be okay to answer it with “Indian.” But nationality? I’d have to say I’m American. It’s too bad coconut is not an option - brown on the outside, white on the inside.
I’d like to differentiate between the different terms courtesy of Wikipedia:

Ethnicity is the cultural characteristics that connect a particular group or groups of people to each other.
“Ethnicity” is sometimes used as a euphemism for “race”, or as a synonym for minority group.
While ethnicity and race are related concepts, the concept of ethnicity is rooted in the idea of societal groups, marked especially by shared nationality, tribal afilliation, religious faith, shared language, or cultural and traditional origins and backgrounds, whereas race is rooted in the idea of biological classification of homo sapiens to subspecies according to morphological features such as skin color or facial characteristics.
It is a term also used to justify real or imagined historic ties as well. In English, Ethnicity goes far beyond the modern ties of a person to a particular nation (e.g., citizenship), and focuses more upon the connection to a perceived shared past and culture.

Oso, talks about ethnicity and defines other commonly misunderstood terms briefly on a recent post:

Ethnicity is a social construct based on biological, cultural, and even religious differences. I think the best definition I’ve read of ethnicity came from a Nigerian writer who migrated from his home country to the U.K. and then to Los Angeles. He said his ethnicity has been called Yoruba, Nigerian, African, and finally Black even though his DNA has never changed.

Nationality is defined by where you are born or where you have naturalized. It’s also based on when you were born. For example, if you were born in San Diego two hundred years ago, your nationality would be Mexican, but if you were born in San Diego twenty years ago, your nationality is considered American.

You can share the same nationality with someone despite not sharing the same ethnicity nor speaking the same language. In fact, this is the norm, not the exception. (take a look at a this list of languages by countries and this one of ethnicity and race by countries - this map of geographic origins of languages is also interesting) India is a prime example of one nation, many languages, many ethnicities, and many religions.

Finally, language is a form of communication that is often related to nationality and ethnicity, but just as often not. Spanish, for example, is one of four languages spoken in Spain. But it is also spoken - in various adaptations - not just in Latin America, but also the Caribbean, parts of Africa, the South Pacific, and much of Southern California and New York City. English is another example of a language which started as one of several in Great Britain, but is now spoken in countries around the world from the United States to Singapore and Malaysia.

2/18/05
I left Goa on Feb 14th and was in Bombay early Tuesday morning, outside Victoria Station, strolling the surrounding the streets, and awaiting the sun’s appearance.
I spent a good part of the day trying to get my camera fixed… hoping I didn’t have to purchase a new one and not wanting to get jacked on any sort of prices. I picked up my camera the following day, slapped J.P. my 1200 rupees, went to Haseena Aunty’s for lunch, and headed to Mumbai Central because my train for Delhi was at 4:55… I sat seated in my AS3 Sleeper compartment 15 minutes prior.
There was a family sitting directly to my right and there was nothing but laughter and excitement from their jurisdiction for over half of the 17 hour journey. They were headed to Delhi for the first time, there was a wedding to attend on Saturday, and it was the uncle’s birthday today- they had good reason for cheer and so did I.
Two beautiful Punjabi children sat behind me with their parents and I spent half of my time trying to get the 6 year old boy to crack a smile… no luck.

I felt like it was so cliche for me to be sitting on the train, starring out into the countryside, watching the sunset, with my phones on…no not for any of these reasons… but because I had Jack Kerouac’s ON THE ROAD open in my hands. I hadn’t grabbed it out of my bag before this ride, because I felt it was completely cliche to be reading this book on the journey that I’m on. Lara would nod her head in agreement, because she says that people who just read the acclaimed work of an author are lame( Lara, I plan on reading Dharma Bums as well). But as I finished the first few chapters, grinning to myself and nodding in agreement; I discarded my previous thoughts.
I arrived in Delhi at 10:30 a.m. and walked from the train station to the taxi stand with more skepticism than a guy playing paintball wondering if his teammates have just turned against him. The horror stories that I had recently heard from fellow backpackers and the summary & advice from the Lonely Planet had created a medieval shield that I would hold with a firm grip unless someone chopped my hands off. The L.P. said to beware of auto-rickshaw drivers and the various scams that they love to pull- overcharging, taking joy rides, telling you that places don’t exist so that they can throw you to a hotel or agent that they are in cahoots with.
So when I got off the train, I walked to the taxi stand and asked a few drivers how much to certain places in Cannaught Circle, and got ridiculous answers like, “150 rupees (3 dollars), “You can’t go there because of the Metro project, It’s impossible,” I thought I now understood a portion of the horror. One guy told me he would charge me 30 rupees to take me to the Indian Tourism Bureau. So it was there that I was told the truth, I think.
There IS massive development going on in Delhi. The main bazaar is closed, the guest houses there are closed, and there is a doctor’s conference currently being held.
So I told the gentleman what my itinerary was. Delhi, Agra, Jaipur, Jahlasamer, Mt. Abu, Udaipur. He told me that they could give me a driver, car, gas, and full accomodations for a fixed price. I bargained him down a little and decided to cancel my train ticket from Delhi-Jaipur in 4 days.
I met the driver, Suresh, we went to to his home where he said good-bye to his family for 14 days, and we cruised around Delhi a bit.
We got caught at an intersection for 25 minutes: buses, rickshaw wallas, auto-rickshaws, motorcyclists, pedestrians, and bicyclists……all hollering at each other to move their asses.
A difference between Bombay and Delhi was evident: Better infrastructure and no rickshaw wallas in Bombay. I mean how can a guy peddling passengers on a bike move with the flow of traffic? I mean its a traditional mode of public transport and its a job that many depend on to live…But the huge negatives are apparent.
Indira Gandhi’s memorial was quite moving, interesting, and emotional. To read newspaper clippings, see photos, memoirs she wrote, and know the details of her life - are things I’m glad I saw and know now.
We left that evening for Agra…

When asking Europeans in the past, what they first think of when they think of Americans… they usually reply with “fat.” “Stupid” finds its way in second. But after chillin in Goa for a few days I’m wondering what the hell how they got it backwards. The stereotypical tourist here is an older, near-retirement age, over-weight Brit. So it leaves me wondering what people are calling Americans fat for… Or should we say that Brits definitley do not speak for Europeans as a whole? Or is this just the demographic of Brit that comes to Goa, India on vacation?
What does a guy wearing a speedo do when he is walking in public and gets a little over excited? Is scared stiff a good way to put it?

I was talking to the homie Oso a few months a go about this trip and about the fact that I was doing it solo. This hombre has travelled more extensively than any hombre I know: SE Asia, Latin America, Africa, Europe. Just when I thought that was enough I asked him, “Have you been to New Zealand.”
And he shoots back, “Yeah, three times.”
We both agree on the positive of aspects of travelling by one’s self.
I do feel truly lucky to have an incredible, diverse array of friends. But there are really only a handful that I would want to make this trip with in its entirety.
When travelling alone you come and go at your leisure and there are no contraints, as far as people go. This allows someone to really dive into some knowledge of self. The times of lonliness can be overcome by forcing oneself to be more social than normal.
I’m a pretty socialable person, but I usually need some kind of opening or reason to strike up a conversation with a random stranger. I normally won’t unless I’m introduced. I don’t pick up women at bars and most of my dear friends have been through school or work.
So I saw this his Australian chap, Ragith, a friend of Kermeez’s, who I had met once when Kermeez was visiting me in Walnut Creek. Kermeez told me that he was gonna be in town and doing some travelling around as well.
“You guys should travel together,” she said.
So we all went out one night in Bombay to a club called Pollyesthers- A retro-happenin’ spot, where we danced the night away til 4:30 a.m.
I thought he was pretty cool, but it seemed like we had different itineraries, so unfortunately it didn’t seem like anything was going to work out. He was staying in Bombay for a while and then going on to Goa, Kerala (where his family is from), Calcutta, etc. I already had tickets booked for Goa, Delhi, and Rajisthan…and am not going to Kerala and Calcutta until May.

So it’s funny… as we are talking to some of Kermeez’s friends outside the club..one of them asks us, “So what are your plans while in India?”
Ragith answers, “Similar. We are going to Goa this week.”
And I’m thinking, “Really, that’s the first I heard that. That’s cool I guess, but you could have asked before pulling that.” I’m sure everyone has experienced something similar- someone making plans that involve you, without consulting you.

So I took the sleeper train to Goa- 12 hours on Monday night, pulling into Goa at 11:00 a.m. Tuesday… I met an Irish guy who was also heading to Calangute Beach, so I asked him if he wanted to split a cab.
He had just gotten back from trecking around Kashmir…He planned on going to Nepal, but couldn’t because of the recent coup. Can we call it a coup yet?
Anyway, we exchanged a few stories, and I ended up grabbing a room at the place that he had a booking at. It was interesting, because we met, got some lunch, chatted a bit…we both realized (well, I did) “Okay, this guy is aight. He’s cool. But that’s that. We are both doing are own thing and I don’t feel any obligation to have to chill with this dude tonight, tomorrow, whenever.”
I had an early night after enjoying some carnival festivities…met some Russian guys, who spoke next to zero English. Yeah, we had fun trying to communicate after a few beers. It was similar to sharades with broken tongues.
Ragith pulls up next morning with Sole (Can’t remember her full name).
With Sole?? Sole is an Aussie girlfriend of Kermeez’s, who is staying with her in Bombay and helping her take care of Kermeez’s sick mother. I had felt bad because I met Sole my second day in Bombay. She had been in Bombay for a month already, so I asked her, “What have you done in Bombay since you got here? And have you been anywhere out of the city?”
She said, “Not much. Went to Elefanta caves.”
So I kind of gave her a hard time for not venturing anywhere…It was only later that I realized that taking care of Kermeez’s mother is a full-time job. Her left leg is not functionable because of the cancer spreading.
So I told myself that it’s okay that Sole and Ragith are here and it ended up being pretty cool.
North Goa reminds me of Maui…beautiful, but super touristy. South Goa- Palolem Beach (more like Kaui), two hours from Calangute Beach, is what really took my breath away. After staying in the North for four days, Sole headed back to Bombay, and Sumi came down from Poona.
Sumi is a friend of Nate’s, old roommate in San Diego. Nate was probably the greatest thing that happened to me in 2004 and I love him for being such a jackass. Sumi is working for a construction & development NGO and has now been in Poona for a month, after working in Hamburg, Germany for a few. We both studied international relations, so I’ve asked her advice on future prospects quite often. It was great to see her Saturday morning. I found a place in the Lonely Planet and it said “best breakfast in Goa”. So I emailed her and told her to meet me at 8a.m. Saturday, after her bus arrived. It was a gorgeous spot, right off the Baga River, a few kilometers from my place of stay.
At around 10, we got Ragith, and took a cab down south to Palolem Beach. There is one word to describe it: Surreal.
It feels like a deserted island with a few hundred people, incredible scenery, complete relaxation, and delicious food. Most of this is made possible by the restaurants with their cushioned floor sitting, brilliant array of music, and the absolute subtraction of rushing anywhere else- by the consumer or establishment (oh so common back home & almost anywhere else).
I met some fascinating people in Palolem. A Columbian named Francisco, who has lived in France for 15 years selling art…his girlfriend is a dancer and so Paris is where she must live for work…but he hates the congestion of Paris so he lives elsewhere. We talked politics, youth, society, music and drank masala chai after taking a boat to see some dolphins.
Ragith met some incredible Hungarian girls named Orsi & Kata. I was enchanted and delighted by Orsi. She studied in Germany for 7 years, finished her masters, and wrote her thesis on Bollywood and the myth constructed for women. She had just filmed a documentary in Punjab, but was not too thrilled with the results.
We all sat on the beach for an hour at night with candles and I thought the conversations were deep, thoughtful, reflective, and even a little emotional.
I felt so taken back by Orsi… since she had done much with gender studies I asked her for her thoughts on arranged marriages, and she gave me quite an interesting, intropective answer.
Sumi left earlier that day-Sunday…before she left I found her on the balcony of the beach shack with a sentimental twinkle in her eye. She just wrote me an email titled “My Ah-ha moment”, explaining that state she was in. I’d like to share it with hopes of getting some responses from you folks out there.

Back at work and deciding the future of the real
estate and construction market in India… the first
topic of conversation was “Goa as a burgeoning hot
spot to market to foreign investment.” I am trying to
be open-minded and hopeful that there is some sort of
convergence between globalism and sustainable
development that won’t end in an exacerbation of
societies evils – or maybe “wrongs” to make it less
fatalistic…but…

But sitting on that porch, surrounded by hotel huts
that weren’t there 5 years ago, looking at the blue
Arabian Sea, I couldn’t help but think of Sartre and
his condemnation of tourism as modern imperialism.
Already hearing stories of how Palolem used to be a
beautiful and pristine Eden, but how it is slowly
eroding into the rest of third world
tourism-economics.

It’s a catch 22… in terms of discovery and maintenance
of that initial purity. Or would it be more like a
“you can never go home” kind-of situation. Whatever
the adage may be for this particular case, is it
always the case that you destroy something the moment
that you become a part of it… as in, the thing is now
fundamentally changed now that you have “added” to it.
Can anything be experienced and not altered?

I suppose the gist I’m trying to make and what I’ve
realized now that I’m back in Pune… back in Palolem I
think I just became fully aware of how I affect things
in a truly existential,
you’ve-got-to-take-responsibilities-for-you’re-actions
kind of thing. And I know this is a very basic
principle of thought and pedestrian in terms of “we
are all part of the golden chain of life” blah blah
blah… But the point is, being there made me really
think about it and truly feel it. Being in a country
where critical international development issues are at
the forefront and where it is truly ‘happening’ makes
you really face those issues apart from an academia’s
protective discourse bubble – ah that ever present gap
between theory and practice.

I was just sitting on the porch listening to your
music and boom… it was just an amazing moment you
know.

I mean there are so many things that are buzzing
around in my head to try and explain it or see the
implications I should take from it and I have no idea
if any of this makes sense or if it is all blather,
but you and Reggie are connected to it just by being
there with me. I don’t know, it just felt right to
share that with you, like you could understand better
than someone who wasn’t there.

Well, I’ll leave you to your own thoughts…

Being in Karachi at my Nani-ma’s house was like living in my favorite cafe/used book store for a week. So that would be Cafe Macondo in the Mission District or Karova in San Diego or Cafe Trieste in North Beach & Moe’s Books in Berkeley or City Lights in North Beach. Although City Lights isn’t used… Kerouac and his fellow Beats shoulda done something about that.
There are like 3 rooms filled with bookshelves with some some of the greatest authors - Galeano, Kundera, Ellison, Hemingway…It’s been a constant “Damn, he liked them, too. Hell yeah.”
It’s been nice investigating his past, although my Nani-ma has been a little restrained on what she feels I should know. That’s been frustrating as hell. She also claims that she burned his letters and journals because that is what he wanted. Why would anyone want their memoirs burned? And then she asks me “Well, if I did have them…what would you use them for? Why would you want to see them?”
This made me kind of uncomfortable when she would ask questions like this.
“Ummmmm….because I want to know what he was thinking, feeling, and doing during different periods of his life.” Why the hell else would I want to see them?
All in all though, it was excellent spending quality time with her and hearing her reminisce about Anant. When talking about him she would stare into space, with a twinkle and a grin bringing her back to that specific moment or story.

He was born Victor Anant…a Brahmin turned Muslim, leaving his family in Kerala. He worked for UNESCO for a period in Uganda and taught a journalism course. He spent much of his early years in London as a jazz critic for SPECTATOR. As I searched through his hundreds of records I found a ton of gems: Coltrane, Miles, Sonny Rollins, Coleman Hawkins. Many cats who I only knew by name like Ahmad Jamal & Art Blakey.
He also wrote for THE GUARDIAN, AMBIT, and published a few novels. One of the novels, SACRED CROW, is basically autobiographical. I’m currently searching for a superb piece he wrote after Nehru’s death for THE GUARDIAN.
He liked his tabacco and his wacky-tabacco. He said “he could see colors” when blessed by the herb’s essence. He was a dynamite cook and his love for travel caused him to seek abodes all over the world: London, Galicia, Karachi, Kuala Lampur. It was in Galicia, a town called Betanzos, near the city of La Coruna, in the north-western tip of Spain, that I last saw him. It’s an old stone house on a sizable piece of plush landscape, next door to a farm with horses, sheep, chickens and dogs running around. I was 13 or so. Right when we got there, without request from my sister nor I, he told us that he was going to quit smoking. It was out of nowhere. But being so young and innocent, we were happy that he was finally going to give up that unhealthy habit. Towards the end of our week long stay, we caught him puffin’ a stoagie… naturally we were upset he had broken his promise after just a week. During our stay he also got a little too drunk and yelled at me, which caused me to cry. Wah.
I don’t know if it was because of the broken promise and belligerence…but I kept very little contact with him after we left Spain. It was 93′ or so and he passed away in 99′. I revisited the old stone house when I was in Spain in 02′…I stayed with Raimondo and Antonia- the neighbors who own the farm next door. They were the one’s who bought the house from him, at far below it’s actual worth. I didn’t know the details of the sale of the home until just recently though.

Antonia & Raimondo bought the house from him so their daughter and her new husband could live there. Anant had agreed on a price with them along with other parts to the deal: he would be able to live in the home until the end of the year and he could stay there for awhile during future summers to come. Sounds like a good deal…He later realized that the price was quite below its actual value. But that didn’t matter to him because he had given them his word regarding the sale. But Raimondo and Tony later told him that the deal had changed and he couldn’t stay the rest of the year or return during summers. They probably realized that he would be a difficult man to accomodate and since they are farmers, this land was of vital importance to them. So he sold the home and died a week later in London.
The funny thing about Anant and his neighbors hit me after reading a few of his short stories. He constantly is writing about Galicia, Betanzos, & Raimondo & Tony- with a critical analysis. It’s interesting… it sounds feasible that they didn’t like being written about right? Maybe I’ll ask them the next time I visit…
People I met in Karachi had nothing but good memories of Anant. I commonly heard, “He was a good friend. I miss him dearly.”
I hope to read and learn more soon and later.
Here you can find a portrait, a story, and an elegy written by John Berger, for the late Victor Anant. R.I.P.

I was able to catch President Masharraf speak at the opening of a new school with 200 hundred other folks. My previous notions of the General have now been all but squashed to the ground. I had thought the basics: He came to power in a bloodless coup & he is a military dictator, which makes the US support of him the utmost hypocritcal.
But he is smart, he knows his numbers, and economic development is occurring for the people who need it in Pakistan: Everyone. Everyone I spoke with, talked highly of him. His charisma, intelligence, and verbal literacy caused my perception to alter greatly. I will now look at him with more respect, intrigue, and regard than I do for our own President.

I could probably say that I have come to Karachi with three curiousities. I want to learn who Anant was, how Islam is, and what Pakistan will be.
For the first few days here I had my questions at the top of my dome for my Nani-Ma. It’s like they have been locked in a vault for a decade awaiting the key master (”Are you the key master?” “Yes, I’m a friend of his.”- Ghostbusters just for pops). We would be sitting in the morning, drinking chai, and I would blurt, “Was Anant a socialist?” And she would answer, “Yes. Until the end. Partition greatly hurt him. He, more than anyone wanted to see a unified India. But I think socialism is dead.”

A former student of my Nani-ma’s, Sadia, took me for lunch my second day in Karachi. We grubbed some Chicken Mahkani, Chicken Tikka Masala, and a lot of nan. As we are devouring the savory goodness and talking about South Asian history, she tells me with ultimate conviction,”There would have been unification, but Gandhi said that Muslims could not practice Islam in India.”
To which I said, “Whaaaat!?”
Then I had dinner with some folks who knew Anant a night later and I told them what this girl had said to me. This guy almost dropped his fork in shock. “That’s not true. No. It was Nehru’s power trip. Nehru had to be Prime Minister and he didn’t want to give any power to Jinnah. It was because of Nehru that there was partition.”
To which I sat and listened…
You’d think that there would be one straightforward answer to some of history’s great questions. Why was India divided into sections with Independence? Why did the U.S. intervene in Vietnam? Why did we invade Iraq? But I guess these are tough questions and various answers gain greater credibility in different areas and time periods.
One of my pet peeves is when someone gives me false information…especially when they tell me with a fist-stomping-the-table-attitude. I was in San Diego with a friend a couple years ago and a foreigner asked him, “How do I get to highway 8?” My friend bluntly answers, “There is no highway 8.” I had just moved to town and was unware of anything but “the 5″, so I went along with it. But I found out later, that there is indeed an important highway numbered 8. My buddy had already lived and driven in the town for a couple years and I was dumbfounded at how he didn’t know of the highway and how he told the guy with such undoubtful truth in his language.
I asked another friend about a year a go: (I feel like she’d kill me if I gave her name away, so I won’t. She is a Shia-Muslim from Iran) “What percentage of Iraq is Shi’a?” She replied “10%.”
So I figured “Huh, I guess the Shi’as have no way of obtaining a majority with a democratic election. I could have sworn they were two-thirds of the country though.”
Later that evening I was doing my nightly SD-WC politic chopping with my pops on the phone and I said, “Well, Iraq is only 10% Shi’a, so they won’t grab power with elections.”
“No, my son. You are mistaken. Iraq’s Shi’a constitute 60% of the population.”
To which I said, “Whaaaat!?”
The next day I stormed in on my friend and blew up at her. I probably overreacted, but I was so furious to have been misinformed. This has caused me to be weary at times over spreading sketchy information that I’m not 100% sure of. I usually hesitate when explaining things because I’m often not 100% sure… so I say things with a bit of apprehension. I hate this…but I think I prefer it to the arrogant “I know I’m right, as I look down upon you” manner that some people use.
I still like to trust what people say…but I guess I gotta do my homework in addition.

A couple days ago it was Groundhog Day… regardless of whether the shadow was there or not, it’s a great movie. I think I caught that flick on cable half a dozen times in 04′, and enjoyed trying to figure out where Phil was in his process of mastering the day .
“Phil? Phil Connors? Is that you?”… “Ned? Ned Rierson?” and then….”Watch that first step, it’s a duhooooozy.” Bill Murray is truly classic. But I think the movie has a deeper meaning- That the day is really what you put into it. He goes from being a jerk and dragging through each hour, to making the most- mastering piano and being a devoted super samaritan.

So that day comes every February 2nd I believe. But only once ever, on February 16th of this one and only 2005, the Kyoto Protocol becomes international law. The highlighted link will take you to an excellent article I just peeped that breaks down its significance and how it affects you and I. Bouncing from Bombay to Karachi, I’m finding it difficult to believe that the U.S. “is the world’s greatest emitter of greenhouse gases.” But it is true, and although some developing nations have not signed the treaty, most European nations have, and it’s pretty shameful that the U.S. has not.
Thomas Friedman wrote an article last week, and its summary was something like:
We will not attack Iran because we don’t have the troops to carry out the operation. The best way to democratize the Middle East is to invest in renewable energy sources. This will force those nations, who depend on oil exportation, to liberalize their economies, thus leading to a domino of democratic, free states.
It sounds so logical and so easy….Is it? Well, since the Bush Administration is so vested in the fossil fuel industry, it’s going to take a lot more than just convincing. Read that article and lemme know what you think…

In the spring of 03′ I took a course for Third World Studies called “Islam and the Modern World”. During its duration, I realized how interested I was in the religion, its teachings, and for it being an anti-western idealogy, like Marxism. Sure, socialism and islamism have many flaws in their current states, but they both provide an alternate route from consumerism, capitalism, westerization, and materialism.

Each morning at 6:00a.m. in Karachi, I awaken half-way to the AZAN from the nearby mosque. AZAN is the call made by the Muezzin to summon Muslims to pray five time daily. It’s been incredible to see the piety expressed by people over the past few days. A deep piety that is rooted in a spiritual grounding. In the late afternoons I have sat and watched the cook do her prayers. The concentration and meaning that she puts forth as her forehead touches the ground each time, going back to child’s pose. As she whispers the prayers, I feel how deeply involved and dedicated she is with this daily ritual. I admire this.

I want to read the Qu’ran and understand why over a billion and a half people in our planet revere this text. Why is it so beautiful and why is it said to be so prefect? Like my grandfather, Anant, I find some beauty in all religions and I’m not sure if I will ever profess to strictly one. I like to say that I am agnostic, but we’ll see where I end up… I am currently reading “The Meaning of the Qu’ran”- By S. Abdul A’la Maududi. Muslims must read the Qu’ran in Arabic (as it was originally spoken by Muhammad) in order to interpret it’s fullest, most powerful meaning. But many Muslims speak and read another language: Urdu, Farsi, Russian, etc etc… Therefore, in order to grasp its full meaning, most Muslims read the Qu’ran in Arabic, which they do not understand. Hmmmm…
My Nani-ma said that she too was one of those people reading the Qu’ran without understanding the meaning, until she met Anant, who knew it inside out. “It was Anant who helped me truly understand the Qu’ran.”

My Grandfather grew up in Kerala, India where he was born into a Brahmin family- Brahmins are members of the Hindu priestly caste. He was force-fed their teachings and so he dismissed its qualities early on. When he was seven, he visited the Haji Ali mosque in Bombay and asked to be converted to Islam. He was fascinated by the people and its religion, more-so than the hierarchical system of the Hindus. Despite his intrigue with Islam, his first wife was Catholic. His love for his family had been forsaken by Islam? And his fascination with Islam had been taken over by his love for an English woman named Daphne? Perhaps… I’ll discuss his life more in another post, right now we’re just talking about Islam in Karachi.

I saw a French opera the other night with some friends of Anant’s: Moen and his wife, Marish. The following evening we went to a play funded by the British council. The issue that the play discussed was “Honor Killings” and the goal was to raise awareness and provoke discussion regarding it.
Wikipedia describes Honor killing “as the practice of males killing their female relatives or spouses when the female relative or spouse is considered to have damaged the family honor through unwarranted sexual activity. The males involved in the sexual activity, which might have been a rape, are not adversely affected, in general. The execution is considered to be a private matter within the affected family; rarely do non-family members or the courts become involved.”
“Islamic law prescribes severe punishments for zina’ (extramarital sex) by both men and women; premarital sex may be punished by up to 100 lashes, while adultery is punishable by stoning. The act must however be attested by at least four witnesses of good character, punishments are reserved to the legal authorities, and false accusations are themselves punished severely. The term “honor killing” refers specifically to extra-legal punishment by the family against the woman, and as such is forbidden by the sharia.”
“Interpretations of these rules vary. Some Arabs regard it as their right under both tradition and sharia (by the process of al-urf), though this contradicts the views of the vast majority of Islamic scholars (fuqaha). Ayatollah Ali Khamenei of Iran has condemned the practice as “un-Islamic”, though the punishment under Iranian law remains lenient. In Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim country, honor killings are unknown, as also in Muslim parts of West Africa. According to Sheikh Atiyyah Saqr, former head of the al-Azhar University Fatwa Committee (one of the oldest and most prestigious in the Muslim world):
“Like all other religions, Islam strictly prohibits murder and killing without legal justification. Allah, Most High, says, “Whoso slayeth a believer of set purpose, his reward is Hell for ever. Allah is wroth against him and He hath cursed him and prepared for him an awful doom.” (An-Nisa’: 93) The so-called “honor killing” is based on ignorance and disregard of morals and laws, which cannot be abolished except by disciplinary punishments.”[4]
After the play finished, audience members got in line to comment and question the actors on the material and of the details regarding honor killings. This was intense. Most people gave their point of view, which was more-or-less on the side that “Honor killings are bad. Do away with them.”
But one guy stood up and said, “Well, its very political. You must account for the politics of this and why this is happening to women.”
This got an already emotional old lady to stand in tears, shouting “Don’t mix women and politics!” From there she rambled in an emotional rage and people had to eventually grab the mic from her hand like a bad freestyler who thinks he/she can flow well. People were definitley passionate about the topic and had strong opinions about its current state and legitamacy.
All in all I was impressed with the Urdu play. I couldn’t believe how progressive the Muslims were in Pakistan. Ouch…Yes, I was making a mistake. I was thinking that these elite, progressive Muslims of Karachi, were the Muslims in all of Pakistan. It was analagous to living in the San Francisco Bay Area and thinking that these like-minded individuals spoke for the United States. I would have to make a better observation and analysis later.

Servitude:

As you might know, a semi-decent salary in India (& Pakistan) can give one the cushy luxury that one could only dream of in the States. Most people in the middle to upper-class range here will thus have a servant/cook, maid, and driver. These workers get paid a monthly salary and depending on whether they have their own family to care for, they might also sleep at their bosses’ home. One can only hope that they are treated with the decency any human being deserves.
For someone like myself (and you as well), who has lived on his own for a few years and likes to independently take care of most things- this type of servitude is difficult to receive. To have another person open the door, turn on the light switch, and pick up your dishes just seems a bit ridiculous. And does this servant despise these tedious tasks or does he/she feel they are not doing their job diligently if I, for example, want to pick up my dish and rinse it? I am struggling a bit with this question because I think it is the latter. When telling people around here that I am having some trouble in allowing someone else to do my daily chores, they answer with “You’ll get used to it.” Forget that. I don’t want to get used to it. It almost seems like the faulty argument that gets used to justify sweatshops like Nike’s in Indonesia- “Well, isn’t it true that Nike provides them with a better job than they could get otherwise.” “Yeeeeah, but it’s still not right ya jackass!” There is a better counter, but that one is more fun.
Fortunately, this servitude dilemma is different. It is usually way more positive than any sort of sweatshop condition . If someone works for you in your home and you pay them with money, food, and shelter- how can this be terrible? My Nani-ma here in Karachi likes to give them something more. Each Muslim is supposed to go on HAJ (the pilgrimage to Mecca) sometime in their lifetime, if they can afford it. I’m sure that with the unemployment and poverty that plagues the middle east, many people cannot fulfill this obligation. My Nani-ma has paid for 5 people to go on HAJ…the young man who is currently trekking to Mecca has been paid to go for two months. I think that’s pretty cool.
So I am trying to realize that having servants in this part of the world is okay, but I will stilltry to open the door and turn off the light myself.

Arranged marriages:

My grandparents who live in Calcutta have been married for over 60 years now. But the fact that my grandfather had a mistress for over half of those years, has probably caused me to look at arranged marriages with great skepticism. Most people in the western world also look upon that process as being incredibly flawed and outrageous. I mean “Where’s the love!?” It does seem like such a paradox when you see the storyline of almost every Bollywood film.
Coming to India in the twenty-first century, I thought that this old tradition had been chucked out the window (along with the garbage that everyone throws out their window). This was until an Aunt spoke of her daughter.
“I am trying to arrange something for her. She is twenty-five now and it’s high time. We have three gentlemen who will coming to meet her in February. One from Toronto, one from San Francisco, and another from the UK. I hope that your parents will be able to come out next year for the wedding.”
The last line was what gave me the big shock. Whaaaaaaat?!? How can you expect that out of three fellas, one is the match for the rest of your daughter’s lifetime? How can you be so sure that the sparks are going to fly and wedding bells are gonna be chimed in 2006? I still feel this is way, but I have since understood a tad bit of how an arranged marriage might work. Mr Phillip, the Serbian, who is obsessed with Parsis, (the community of Zoroastrians) gave me some insight. “The parents are giving the daughter a chance to find someone. If she doesn’t, which she hasn’t, then they will arrange something. They feel 25 is way past the age for a girl to be married. The arrangement won’t feel arranged. It’s like a friend setting you and another friend up for a date and hitting it off. People can find ways to make it spark if they try.” Alright, I’ll try to understand. Any thoughts?

1) It seems like most people who inhabit an area know very little of its core or periphery. For example, most of us young folks from the Dub-C East Bay Area, wouldn’t be able to take someone through San Francisco-From North Beach, to the warf, on to the Mission, up to Haight, and back without getting lost. Okay, maybe that’s just me…But I think it’s just been in the last couple years that a handful of us have made the effort to try and befriend one of the best cities on the planet, while others nearby choose to stray. Example number two, is when I stayed with a homestay family in Salamanca, Espana for 3 months. The parents whom were in their forties hadn’t been anywhere in Spain- Barcelona, Sevilla, Portugal- which was only two hours from Salamanca!! I mean how does this happen? How do people get so comfortable in their surroundings that they have no interest in exploring or knowing their home?
Example number three is Bombay. Especially so…because here in India and Pakistan anyone who has a decent lifestyle has a servant/maid, cook, and driver. This means that the driver takes them to and from their destination in air-conditioned luxury. They (anonymous) aren’t able to express any detail when someone asks them about Bombay and its intricacies.
Lucky for me, I meet someone like Mister Phillip- a fifty-year old Serbian man in the petro-chemical business who lived in Bombay for 8 years a while back. “Taizun and I will be going far down under after all the environmental damage we’ve caused in our lifetimes,” he laughs. I had lunch with him and my Uncle Taizun’s secretaries and he was hysterical. Lots of stories and very animated. After lunch, I was planning on going into Colaba…Mister Phillip said he was heading that way and that we could walk there together…From Horniman Circle we cruised…he knew Colaba inside-out… it was like taking a guided tour of a college campus. “This is the Church of England, but was renamed Church of India after independence. These lads are selling generic perfume in designer bottles. The guy who just sold me this pack of cigarettes would have given me a cheaper tabacco if I didn’t speak Hindi. Indian girls don’t want American guys. If they are seen with an American, then everyone thinks they are a slut. If an Indian guy has an American, then he is macho.” Keep going my friend. We talked about Serbian politics, Indian society, and his life all over a couple pints at Leopolds. “This is a Parsi establishment. You know that right?” He was fascinated by the Parsi culture and he was much more versed in its history and tradition. “The Parsis will die because there are so few of them and the marriage rules are too strict. They should change this.” Why so you can convert?

2) A girl named Suchi. You know those people who are usually of the opposite sex and who have an incredibly sassy, spunky, sarcastic, energetic sense of self? The people you can instantly joke around with. I love those people. Although since sarcasm is usually at the foundation of the relationship, its hard to dig beneath that towards sincerity. Or so some have told me…
She is a good friend of Melissa’s (my aunt’s daughter) and I met her my first night in Bombay. She was singing to songs on the car radio and yapping away about this and that. I later played her a track by Annie called “Heartbeat” and she was dancing and playing it over and over again. “How did you know I would like that song. That is a great track! Music, I love music. When I hear good music I feel like I can do anything!” Whoa. A couple days later she steals my hat, thinking that I am nice enough to give it to her…Well, she has still has it, but I better get it back. “It’s not everyday you meet someone so similar. It’s so great. I mean, you and I we are the same. What’s the word I’m looking for?..ummm…NOTORIOUS, yeah.”
“Notorious? I don’t think that’s the right word,” I replied.
“Yes, notorious,” Suchi says.
“Okay.”

I was last in India when I was 12, for my Navjote. This the first-communion-like ceremony for the Zoroastrian religion. It was at the Grand Hotel in Calcutta where I recited a half hour of prayers for a couple hundred people…and that was one of the last times that I ever did recite them. I recall now that I hadn’t even memorized the copious amount of prayers, but the Dustergee (priest) whom I recited them along with, had such a powerful voice, that he drowned my soft, shy voice before the crowd of people. This allowed me to get through the ceremony without any sort of embarrassment. There’s a number of other memories I have of the country…but after just stepping off the plane in the early morning, I found the most cherished one. Taking a deep breath of the Indian air for me is refreshing. Yes, its polluted and hazy, but this aspect along with so many other entities that are considered filthy are the things I really like about India and other developing countries.
I have missed this smell. Since I was 12, the only time I have gotten a nice wiff of it has been when my grandmother comes into town. No, its not her B.O. It’s when she opens her luggage up and out pops that filthy-sweet smell that knocks me back about two feet. Filthy-sweet. I’m not sure how else to describe it. But I do know it was something I was thinking about before coming here and something I was yearning to smell again.
I knew that my Aunt’s driver would be picking me up with my name on a sign. After, the guy stamped my passport and gave me the traditional Indian grin with nod to the side, I saw the guy with the sign, and I gave him a wink and a smile.
Even just driving home to my Aunt’s house, it all seemed so vaguely familiar. My senses have been so awakened since coming here. Bombay is Juhu and Cowpatty beach. Its Bandra and Colaba along with so many other bubbling, thriving spots. It’s auto-rickshaws honking profusely at the pedestrians and bicyclists, whom are barely managing to meander their way through th lanes or scurry across the street…usually to miss getting nabbed by mere centimetres. It’s the infrastructure that makes Bombay beautiful. The congestion, traffic, floods of people, and how it all seems to barely work out in the end. They say that if you can drive in Bombay, you can drive anywhere in the world. A guy I met recently added, “If you can drive in Ahmedabad and Calcutta, you can drive anywhere in the universe.”
So much contradiction, poverty, diversity, income disparity, and contrasts. It all adds up to the creation of the intense beauty of being caught in the grips of this fascinating city.
I thought that this American Desi would stick out like a bloody, sore thumb, amongst neatly manicured fingers, but if I keep my mouth shut it’s not quite the case in thi s modern metropolis. But I don’t keep my mouth shut normally. I almost find myself being very proud that I have this American accent and I feel happy with a cahnce to display it. I try not to judge others, but at times I do feel some sort of superiority- this usually doesn’t occur towards the poor, but at the rich, hip youth of Bombay. My first night in town, Melissa (my Uncle Taizun and Aunt Perveen’s daughter) took me to a hookah bar-coffee shop. The guys are quite fashionable with their hip haircuts and apt to the latest style of the States, while the ladies are astonishingly breathtaking period. Simply unbelievable. Whether in tight fitted jeans to show off their figure or in the traditional, vibrantly colored salvakameeses- I am equally in awe of either. You can say that I’ve been a tad deprived of the Indian woman, while I’ve lived the first twenty-two years of my life in Walnut Creek. What did we have like five Indians maybe out of a population of 1,200 at Las Lomas?
The café seen has sprouted up like no other in Bombay over the past few years. Small chains like “Barista”, “Mocha”, and “Café Coffee Day” are on corners of happenin’ parts of town and young people flock there as if a Bollywood star is expected to be there. No, there will be cameo appearances tonight- it’s a place to be seen for some “coffee and conversation”, as one of the slogans go

Friday morning I awoke alert at 7a.m., ready for the day. I did some yoga and push-ups on the cool marble floor of my room, and told my Aunt I was going for a run on the beach. Today, was Eid, a holiday for the nation and a celebration for Muslims. The beach was already alive with activity: kids playing soccer and cricket, adults out for a walk or jog, and behl puri or paratha vendors getting prepared for the day.
A reoccurring theme for over the past few years, is that when I move from home I feel inspired to exercise, do yoga, and my thoughts flow more fluidly. All of this initially, as my consistency in most endeavors seems to gradually dwindle.
There’s a lot more sociological analysis of Bombay to come along with some other thoughts…perhaps when I return here next week.