Black or White

My non-Indian friend met an Indian girl (from Mumbai) at work. During conversation my friend mentioned that she knew me, and that she'd visit Bangalore next year. Pat came the reply "oh, he's from Bangalore? His skin must be darker than mine"*. My friend mused that my skin is in-fact a couple of shades lighter than Ms. KKK.

I hope I get to meet the wannabe Aryan soon. So much fun to be had, bring lots of popcorn.

My grandpa's brother is visiting over the weekend. It's a wonder that he is ambulant, let alone so active at his age. Unfortunately, he does not drink alcohol. I have no idea how I can entertain someone for 3 days without beer. Every day's a new challenge!

* - North Indians stereotype South Indians as having dark skin. The northies, as I like calling them, believe they're descended from "immigrating Aryans" - a theory which has been proven untrue. Read here and here.

Sunset (Bird of Prey)

House hunt is still on. I put in an offer on this townhome, 5k lesser than asking price and asked seller to cover closing (another 5k-ish). Seller came back with conditions

1) Full price, seller covers closing
2) Seller needs 10 days to find another place, if not, the deal is off.
3) Seller needs possession for 3 days after closing.

What. The. Fuck. Give me something to work with, bitch. Having to full price is a little insulting because Indians are never satisfied until they get a discount. Condition #2 is a little worrying, what if the deal falls through mid-September? I won't have time to close on my "backup" homes and that will mean additional expenses, something I don't need right now fuck you very much. Condition #3 is just BS - after we close, it's my house asshole - get the hell out.

We told the selling agent that conditions 2 and 3 were unacceptable and he pretty much asked me to fuck off. Bastard. What part of ready buyer in a dead housing market don't you understand? You, the seller - could you be any less motivated? Here I am, throwing myself at your relic, and there you are making inane demands. My final offer this morning was full price, and a "yes" to both conditions as long as the seller drops 1k into an escrow account for safety during the 3 days of occupancy after closing. I am still enormously pissed off that I'm the one making all the compromises here. I hate being in this situation, I feel like a fucking pansy. I should hear back from them later in the day.

While I'm ranting, might as well get this off my chest. I hate fat jokes. While no one has had the guts to tease me for my beer belly, I see Indians around me toss around plenty of fat jokes. Why are we as a race so fucking insecure about our bodies? We want fair skin, big eyes, good hair, perfect bodies. Everything else is an object of derision. Sure, humans are all about unrealistic expectations, but why poke and prod at something that doesn't meet an impossible standard?

If you see someone whose body you want to make fun of, stop and think.

1) Do you sport a 6 pack under that clearance sale tee-shirt?
2) Does your partner resemble a reanimated statue from a Greek temple - genitals intact?
3) Are you incapable of holding on to chain a thought longer than 5 seconds thereby unable to find a personality flaw to make fun of?

If your answer is yes to all the conditions, then you're given a 3 second head start before you're chased down by a pack of rabid stray dogs (there's plenty of them in good ol' motherland). You will be rounded up and put in an enclosure sans clothes, in the company of India's right wing moral police. Good luck, suckers.

If your answer is no to any of the questions, you don't get the headstart. After a year in the cage, you'll be made to watch all episodes of Mind of Mencia, a la A Clockwork Orange, followed by 2 months of non-stop MTV programming. Enjoy your lobotomy.

Blue Wonder Power Milk

For most Americans, Bollywood films are all about synchronized dance sequences involving 20 colorfully dressed extras. Spot on old chaps, I say, monocle in eye.

Sikhs are the black people of India. No, we didn't put them to work on cotton farms, but they're probably the coolest folk in the multicolored hue of an Indian rainbow. They're well built, look very distinctive, dress and talk uniquely, and all the kids in college want to be like them. All the non-sikh guys want to get with them sikh ladies while the sikh guys, obnoxious assholes that they are, have full access to the dating pool.

Their music finds its way into most Indian parties and can make anyone want to move in a semi rhythmic fashion. However, if you're like me, you'll have no clue what to do when stuck in the middle of the dancefloor with dozens of gyrating young couples. Fear no more, I got your back.

Thanatos' guide to rockin' out on an Indian Dance floor.

Basic Rules

1) For most part, dancing with other Indians is a non-contact social activity. Sure, you can get close enough to simulate touch, and even let your shoulders meet, but anything more is asking for trouble from friends (hers and yours), jealous boyfriends/exes, family members, hidden moral police.
2) If you find a young man from the state of Punjab in your vicinity, make your way in opposite direction. He can easily be identified by musty body odor, bad breath, puffed face due to all the drinking, hairy chest on display. He's probably brought friends, it's best to exit the club altogether.
3) Don't be the first one on the dance floor.
4) Don't be the only one on the floor.
5) Be prepared to be raided by the Indian police at anytime.

Basic Dance moves for the choreographically challenged - The Shoulder pulse

We Indians like to use our shoulders. A lot. While it screams "this dude can't dance for shit", it's better than standing outside and missing out on all the simulated contact action. Rehearse this before hand, should be easy to master. Stand in front of  a mirror, pull your lower lip in a curl, squint your eyes, bend your knees a little. Keep your hands along your thighs, and start shrugging slowly. Repeat till you have a rhythm. On the dance floor, move your shoulders up and down according to the beat. You can sway your torso just a little bit to add some extra flavor. There you have it - your first Indian dance move!

Intermediate Dance moves

So you think you have the shoulder move down? The ladies aren't recoiling in horror anymore? Time to step it up!

1) The light bulb - Stand straight, hold your left arm up and rotate the wrist trying to unplug an imaginary light bulb.
2) The cigarette - With your right foot, stub out an imaginary cigarette.

Place your right hand on your waist, combine steps 1 and 2, and voila - you're doing the dance as vital to Indian choreography as the 4 beat to rock music! Congrats! Spice it up by moving your hip to the left as you do the lightbulb to show you're down with the beat.

Advanced Dance moves

Lets face it. If you want to go this far, you and I shouldn't be friends. I'll be at the bar getting drunk. Asshat.

Ozone Baby

I'll slack off today and post pictures.

Promised ball-cupping pics.

The next day, I had a few friends over for a cocktail party. You know it's a good night when you finish a bottle of rum in under 2 hours.



Man, it's been a while since I broke out that hookah.

Speaking of which, random story (guess I'm not that lazy after all). Me and a few friends were in god forsaken dirthole downtown Denver two summers ago. Of course, the bar we were in had this angry red, near gothic theme going for it, and us former death-goth-metal-heads quite liked the place. We Indians very quickly realize that our accent will never be considered exotic, and that our words will never make the ladies swoon or make their knees go weak. It is of great use when you want to play "make the politically correct whitey laugh at your accent", but not too much good comes out of it otherwise. Try saying "you and me, will paint this town red baby" like Apu does and you'll see what I mean. Yanks - yes, we know you find us funny.

Anyway, even if I did have an outrageously cool accent, I have zero skills to initiate conversation with the fairer sex, much less charm them with my mystical Eastern wisdom. So I generally stick with my friends and pretend I'm too cool to "play the game". Back to the story. After a few drinks, we stepped out for a smoke. I should mention that I pick up the cancer sticks only when I've had one too many, and my sparkling wit and genius spontaneity are at a bare minimum. We started talking to these ladies of shall we say, an older age group. We exchanged notes about smoking preferences and soon I had to explain that I liked my tobacco flavored, smoke cooled and delivered through an ornamental glass contraption, and indeed I wasn't interested in women who provided sexual gratification after a brief financial transaction.

The ladies were fascinated and cooed "that sounds great! where do you live?". While I've had the occasional wink, suggestive nod, subtle elbow, sensational grind, I'd never had the anvil of a super clue dropped on my head. Of course, we had no intention of taking the bony elders home and I was suddenly faced with the task of ending the conversation. My friends, as usual, had run away and I had 3 sets of crow-feet lined, expectation-filled eyes looking at me. Turning my head to the side, I pulled out my best Indian accent and said "uhhh, I don't know I am new to this city, my friends brought me here, and they live somewhere south and I have no idea how to go there". After a minute's delay, that is.

The rest of the evening was uneventful, and we did end up consuming flavored tobacco bubbled through cold vodka, sans the senior citizens.

Halo

During most of my schooling my dad served in the "fauj". That's Indian speak for the Army. Capital A bitches. Artillery, Gunner and proud of it. If you don't get it, too bad.

He was part of the force that put an end to to the Sikh separatist movement. He had an AK-47 put to his chest because an overstressed idiot wanted 2 weeks of leave.

When I was 7 years old, me and mum moved to the-then pensioners' paradise Bangalore, India because Dad had been posted to the out of control Pakistan-India border. "Non-family station" - the posting was called.

He would call, once a week - Saturday 9 PM IST, at first to a pay phone 2 blocks down our house. Then, when our neighbor finally got a phone 9 years after the first application (fuck you Soviet inspired socialism), he would call there. Yes, that was life. I'd wait a week, to know if my Dad was alive.

In the meantime, life was about visiting temples, old sages and married couples, blessings from holy men and priests to keep the family safe. Fuck god. Fuck all that.

Do you know what its like to spend a week wondering if your father is alive? Multiply that by 5 years. That's equal to fuck god.

god didnt matter. The phone did.

So when you say fuck India, you're saying "fuck your childhood that you missed because your parents chose to protect your borders".  You're implying "fuck all the hours you spent alone tossing a tennis ball in the air because we're dissing the culture based on a few blogs that are no indication of the sacrifices the nation has made".

That's me. A well educated man, living a reasonably privileged lifestyle, hailing from a country of billions - with a history older than the written word. And you choose to disrespect everything my culture, my country and my civilization has achieved because you need a passionate story about divorced parents.

Congrats for being the echelon of evolution. Hope you have blast up there.

Just Push Rewind

There's a saying I heard once

You never regret the things you did, only the ones you didn't.

I've used this line pretty shamelessly to get people drunk and/or other things they'd otherwise be hesitant to do. But some memories can make you feel like a complete tool. Small events like a physical fight, an act of aggression or unkind words don't matter much. If one does feel badly about them, some amount of self-persuasion with a dollop of justification helps.

Ever get a small pebble stuck in your shoe on a hike? The air is getting thinner, your lungs, legs and back are all complaining, when suddenly, every step brings additional irritation. It's not so much about the pain as it is about having to deal with the dull prick amidst all the other creaking joints in your body. Soon, everything else ceases to matter until that small, insignificant pebble has to be discarded.

Wish memories could be handled as easily. I worked in Bangalore for about a year right after college. During the time I'd take food to work everyday (love you mum!) or go out for lunch. On rare occasions, the workload would give me no time to eat out. We had peons in the office who could run out to get takeaways for us. I used that "service" once. I gave the boy (term loosely used - he was at least 10 years older) 20 bucks to get me lunch. He was back soon with the food and 5 bucks change. I asked him to "keep the change". He said "no no, it's cool". I insisted, he kept refusing. I didn't understand the reluctance at all - tips are rare, and meager. His refusal went from a polite "no" to an almost helpless plea. Finally, he said "ok" with some resignation and my ego was stroked - I had been "generous".

It took me sometime to realize that he was not as much of a "worker" as I saw him to be. I'm sure he drew a monthly paycheck, just like I did, and didn't need to be tipped like some of the daily wage laborers. Must have been terribly embarrassing in a country where social standing, class differences are still very important. That, and I figure now that I must have sounded like a complete douchebag.

There was some scene in a movie I saw recently that brought this memory back, and now I can't stop thinking of it. Even if I could apologize to him, I probably wouldn't, considering he *is* a peon and I - well - I'm a dick. Still, I wish there was some way I could get rid of this annoying pebble.

Any regrets?

A Day in Bangalore

I'm back to Denver, all well rested and shall I daresay, sated.

As I ranted before, the questions about how I was to deal with my ever soon to end vacation did not stop. How am I supposed to respond to "boy, it sure as hell will be tough/sad/depressing to go back to living by yourself right?" What is up with Indians and melancholy? Why not cut the dramatics? If we have to make conversation, isn't it easier to ask me about happier things, such as, I don't know, things I did on this trip? Just a simple "did you have fun?" would have sufficed. Why remind me of my impending return to life in a cube?

Apart from inane questions, us Indians like to compare. I'm sure just about anyone and his sister comments on washing v/s wiping, and it's just not funny anymore. Actually, it never was. Anyhow, here's some funny things I  observed on this trip -

1) McD's still has service. And in some cases, a long wait outside.
2) Tipping is terribly arbitrary. And the parents generation still don't tip. They just won't.
3) Tap water is lethal.
4) Traffic signs are mere suggestions, lanes are broken lines on roads that everyone ignores.
5) Overpasses/underpasses/flyovers have red lights. And road humps - so do some tollways.
6) The 5 second rule doesn't apply. Heck, there isn't even a 2 second rule.
7) The temperature (and appearance) of a bottled water is a very big deal.

My Indian accent's back. What fun.

Stranger in a strange land

True story.

Some chap from was UPS/USPS was delivering a package to a 2br apartment occupied by at least 4 well meaning Indian lads. The postman knocked and asked for a "John Smith" or some such white name. Pat came the reply "sorry, but no foreigners live here".

Why I wanna be blind

Scene : 3 AM in the Engineering lobby. Place is still swarming with studying Koreans and Desis (what we Indians call each other)

Situation : Protagonist dressed in the following manner

Blue jeans, yellow shirt with pinstripes, green sweater, gray socks with purple spots.

The other desis in the lobby were wearing various permutations and combinations of the same. I'm not too fashionable and all that but honestly, why do some of us desis dress like inmates from a madhouse?

PJ time

Gori to desi in tweed : Hey there, are you here for the 70's revival festival?
Desi : No I'm from Patiala


PS : This post needed three edits for language that seemed akin to a retard typing with a banana

PPS : Why would a retard type with a banana? Because....He's a retard!! I'm on a roll