You know you're getting older when...

- you begin to think of the ramifications of the passage of one more year, 3 months BEFORE the fact
- you wonder where the last 2 years went
- you parents seem much more chill than you remembered
- your job becomes a product of the hey-you-gotta-make-a-living mindset as opposed to finding your supposed calling
- you realise your priorities have performed a total 180
- you begin to pay attention to anti-smoking ads and those irritating hangovers
- no one, yourself included, is as cool or as irritating as you once thought
- the past seems to recede exponentially
- standardised tests have become suddenly difficult because you refuse to put the 'correct' answer as opposed to the logical one
- you wonder how you could have watched so much tv when you were younger considering how lame it appears now
- shopping is only fun when it's for someone else. otherwise, it just plain sucks.
- you find it difficult to justify having an argument
- meeting new people and searching for different experiences doesn't hold the allure it once had
- you've decided to stop wasting time on the chaff (re: people in your life)
- you can see through people's b.s. and are pleasantly amazed at how full of it everyone is

all work and no play...

Reading skimming investigating to establish 2 topics for papers and pin down a dissertation topic enough so I can write an abstract which I can shuffle around to find a suitable advisor, practicing meticulous lines of Devanagari script, debating whether or not I really want to spend my weekends studying American government and policy, looking at my resume and wondering how to make 'broke last job contract' sound like a positive thing, wondering how to re-start the job search engine when it doesn't really matter what one does as long as one doesn't sell her soul, imagining what a permanent life back in the States would be like, and in those rare spare moments, drifting in desire for someone who is 10K miles away.

This is love

"Should we wake her up?" Estha said.
Chinks of late afternoon light stole into the room through the curtains and fell on Ammu's tangerine-shaped transistor radio that she always took with her to the river[...]
Bright bars of sunlight brightened Ammu's tangled hair. She waited, under the skin of her dream, not wanting to let the children in.
"She says you should never wake dreaming people suddenly," Rahel said. "She says they could easily have a Heart Attack."
Between them they decided that it would be best to disturb her discreetly, rather than wake her suddenly. So they opened drawers, they cleared their throats, they whispered loudly, they hummed a little tune. They moved shoes. And found a cupboard door that creaked.
Ammu, resting under the skin of her dream, observed them and ached with her love for them.

- Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Settling into a groove

Been wanting to blog but there's no witty repartee coming to mind as I spend my moments, hours, days finding a routine that will ground me enough to permit me to remember what is important, to keep my eye on the prize, which at this moment is entry into the US Foreign Service. And isn't it wonderfully ironic that the first time in ages it may be possible to be with someone, I choose a career option that takes me away from any semblance of security and fixity. Anyway, I can't complain. Settling into a routine of workouts, studying (literature), studying (US gov't), studying (Hindi soon!) and plotting contingency plans about the career path.

Reading 'The Economist' and watching the postings on Nomadlife, chuckling at the fervent opinions that itch to unravel their arguments, to be heard because damnit, that's what matters, right? Chuckling at myself as the self-righteous socialist reformer in me mellows, falling quiet, conceding points, accepting (instead of reviling) the logic of the conservative capitalist. There's something grossly attractive about the unloved - so it makes sense that when the American public image is at its worse, I find myself thinking it ain't so bad, being an American, it's actually buena suerte, all that my parents had worked for and becoming more accepting of globalisation/imperialism, profit maximisation/exploitation, outsourcing/unemployment, searching for plausible explanations rather than caustic spin and I-told-you-so's.

priveleged estadounidenses

Lament it or embrace it. Walking into any Starbucks in the world, I'm flung back to the States, in a prozac-themed, coffee-pumping bubble insulated from the alien city outside. A bit of blatant U.S. commercial conformism does the soul good now and then.

so much for the invisible hand

According to this week's edition of The Economist (p.7), China recorded its largest monthly trade surplus, $11.1 billion in December, for nearly a decade...George Bush's outgoing commerce secretary, Don Evans, arrived in Beijing and promptly insisted that China must "forcefully do more" to ease it's trade surplus with America.

Some could get peeved at yet another example of U.S. high-handedness (a.k.a. 'prompt insistence') and hypocrisy - laissez-faire, let the dollar fall but under the assumption that everyone else organises their economy around the new 'reality'. But that's so boring. I find it all wonderfully hilarious. Just shake my head, wag my finger and chuckle 'you naughty boy. When are you going to learn?' Seriously. Being American is so much easier when you imagine America as the 7-year-old alpha male in the playground.

Mi amante fiel no esta

We're so alike, two peas in a pod, it's beyond comprehension. Silencio, tranquilidad reigns, we're not made for chit-chat, our mouths open only to kiss and make fun of the other. Me llama la chica mas profunda del mundo, la loca, la nina, la boba...y yo le llamo un cachorro, el pensador, el presumido. Our alter-egos, the brooding adult and the mischievous child, coincide until the past or the future flits into the present. Con el me siento seguro y despues de perderme en sus ojos, llega un pensamiento, y quiero llorar porque no se amar. Me dijo que le gusto porque soy tan independiente; por eso, nadie puede ser mi pareja. Algunos entran, dejando sus huellas profundas en mi corazon y es este toque, no la persona, que es mi amante fiel.

le hago alegre

despues de 20 meses ha vuelto este jugador sueco, el que me hizo olvidar el primero. me llena con tanta tranquilidad y mas temor que nunca he sentido, me hace olvidar lo que pensaba que queria y ya nada tiene mucho sentido.

India diary

I try to conjure up life as it is, or was, there, in London. But it is impossible here, in azhou Banuo's house, here, in Nagaland, at the furthest reaches of civilisation. The sun is painfully bright, a few thousand feet closer, perched on these hilltops. Eyes squinting, I can hear the leaves rustling, the servants screaming in Nagamese, Elvis' voice crackling on a refurbished radio, all drowned out by the roosters crowing every few seconds. At night my ears ring because it is so silent and I imagine fanged, short ghosts or tall reedy ones that will drive me insane if I open my eyes. All those ghost stories mom has told me of Kohima have invaded my thoughts. So I try to remember something else...

5.5 hour delay in London. Ranjit's virus incubating. No doubt he has infected half the plane by the time we arrive in Calcutta. Landing there was sweet. Foggy, wet, green, palm trees, block houses, peeling paint, muddy streets. A man in front of us complains of the smell of the jetway. I smirk, thinking how much I love that damp, fetid, earthy smell. An IAS officer meets us and pulls us into the single empty immigration booth. Seems these days everyone has a friend in the IAS as four other men buzz around angrily, waving handfuls of passports to be quickly stamped through.

As we cross over to the domestic terminal, Ranjit makes the mistake of pulling out his wallet, preparing baksheesh for the IAS helper. A little boy begins to pester Ranjit for money, his palm stretched out. I'm feeling sick already. In Dimapur, I'm shocked by the airport. Instead of a hut, it's now an actual building, made of concrete. My how things change...the inside looks like an empty warehouse with nothing but a baggage belt and a small office where the authorities issue restricted area passes. We spend the first night in darkness, sitting around candles, reading, knitting, sewing, playing cards. Ajja paploo! The power goes out every hour, so torches and candles are kept on hand. Nagas prefer to go without water, electricity and garbage collection than pay taxes. I can't remember Christmas. I think that was the morning I woke up with a 104 fever at 3 am and azhou Nini came and put cold compresses on my feet and legs...only in Nagaland can you scream "Mommy" and three women come running to coddle you.

But let me get to what we eat. Breakfast is cornflakes and bananas for Uncle O.N. Naga-style kichiri made with fermented soya bean, puri and aloo, finished with papaya. Or sour apples. Or chiku, a strange fruit with mushy flesh. The limes here are small. Ridiculously tiny. In atsa's garden, there is orchid, cherimoya and star fruit. Along with the usual chickens and ducks. Still an agricultural society, livestock, fruits and vegetables are common gifts. The head and leg of a pig are the most honoured gifts. Pig. They eat a lot of it. Upon arriving, I ate too much pig fat, a delicacy, and had to settle my stomach with atsa's home-made ginger ale. Pink, milky and damn hot but alka-seltzer can't begin to compare. Lunch and dinner. Always at least 2 forms of pork. Some chicken or duck.And maybe fish, usually rahu. Dal. Tons of rice. Chapati, veggies and non-spiced dal for uncle. Maya, the south Indian cook, laughs because the foreigners prefer chapati to rice.

The servant system is strange here. Maya has been around as long as I can remember. She's very dark, always wears a sari and she has that rounded body-type particular to ghee-eaters. She's married, speaks Hindi, Nagamese, English and Tamil and understands Angami.She spends most of her day cooking and shopping for atsa and her guests. Is she paid? No. Then why does she work for atsa? What else does she have to do? Married with her own home and a son working in Delhi. And now there is a new girl, Gita. In training. She must be around 11. Dark, very pleasant, but 'slow'. I catch her looking at me and I wonder if she's thinking what I think of her - what would it be like if I were in her place? She sweeps our rooms in the mornings, helps Maya with the cooking, cleans up any mess we cause, and sleeps in a corner of the house. We sit on the veranda, reading or playing cards and the dogs are barking. Gita is sent to untie the dogs and move them. She quickly unties them and runs excitedly down a deck. It's the first time I've seen her so excited, smiling unabashed. A big smile, teeth showing, eyes big. She comes panting up the stairs to return to her chores. After that, I smile everytime our eyes meet and she returns, with a shy smile.

back to Greenwich time

7:05 am. Just sent brother, mom, and sister-in-law off to Gatwick airport. Watching the dawn of my first day in London for the new year. Flatmates are deep in sleep but the quiet isn't vibrating eerily as in Kohima because the early weekend traffic keeps me company. No more Indian Standard Time or pikha cha (black tea in Nagamese, a pidgin of Assamese, Hindi and Angami) after meals or late-night guitar sing-outs next to the fire, a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue Label in hand, or 'na' at the end of every statement or family discussions concerning bodily functions or pigs squealing in fear in the distance or auto rickshaws or pan and red spittle on the teeth or Indian Cadbury Gems or playing gin at night only to lose all my money to my 80-year-old atsa (grandmother) or poori and papaya for breakfast or my uncle's stupid sirdar jokes or the smell of dettol in bathrooms or drinking fresh rice beer in Khonoma, our ancestral village, or watching my cousins wheedle and negotiate with the auto drivers or answering calls of nature by finding a spot among cardamom bushes or tripping over cows hidden in dark corners of Defense Colony market or sceaming at shopkeepers in Lajpat Nagar or falling asleep under the blinding mountain sun on my aunt's steps. I thought about London all of two times in the past three weeks, for about 5 seconds. Not a feeling of longing but a snapping of fingers that woke me from the trance of presence - oh yeah, I live there, don't I? - and then it would vanish and there was nothing except the outline of Mt. Japfu behind a lace wall of poinsettias.