ChaiTeaLatte

CURRENT MELA

here.

Bharateeya Blog Mela - Call for Nominations

Hello, one and all! I would like to call for nominations for the next mela (XXXVI). The directions are as follows:

1. Posts must be written by Indians or focus on India and Indians.
2. Entries dated November 26-Dec. 2 will be accepted.
3. Please drop the nominations in as a comment to this post or send an e-mail to chaitealatte97-at-yahoo-dot-com.
4. Please send permalinks to the actual posts you would like to nominate rather than blog urls.
5. If the permalinks do not work, please send the title of the post plus the blog urls.
6. You can nominate your post or the posts of others.
7. I am particularly interested in medical posts (hey there med bloggers, get your links going!!!) and in desi fiction (I don't know if this is allowed with the rules of the mela, but I sure as heck think that a little blog fiction would be fun. Personal journal entries are not accepted, by convention, in the mela. Yazad or Shanti are good places to visit if you want to know more about the mela.). So if you are a desi blogger who secretly yearns to be the next Arundhati Roy or V.S. Naipaul, this is your chance!!!!!! (And also, why stop at the mela? If you'd like me to link or post a story of yours any old time, I'd love to do just that).

WHO SAYS YOUR LAWS SHOULD BE MY LAWS?

Ok, stuck at work on a Sunday (as usual) and listening to the news. The International Criminal Court in the Hague thinks such and such is illegal. The illegal act occurs, of course, in a non EU country.

Ok, so this is what I don't get. I don't live in an EU country. I certainly don't get to vote for anyone who appoints the judges of the International Criminal Court. So, by what rights does the ICC gain legitimacy? How does this reflect the will of the people? All of this reminds me of those UN decrees that mean nothing on the ground because they are just so many pieces of paper.

Oh, and by the way, I've been in an anglophile blog mood lately (and for more than just MeandOphelia). Been reading Harry's Place a lot lately. Opposite political pole (Lisa, you might like these guys), which is why I like reading it. Need to challenge yourself, you know. Especially when you are procrastinating. No point just reading your own talking points. Er, you know what I mean.

UPDATE: Ennis in comments corrects my profound ignorance regarding the ICC, which I have now broadcast to the world via the internets. Rats!

Basically, the ICC is like an international treaty which the US is signatory to (but why or why did we sign onto this thing? I guess it must protect us too, in some way. It's just so UN-centric. Here is the website. Check it out yourself. And read Ennis's comments. And, note to self: google next time, you ditz!)

WRITING

I have a habit of reliving past years, of looking through my former things, books, pictures, homes in my mind's eye. Always only a few years back, polishing the edges of image so that in my memory that period of my life is smooth and jewel-like. Today I was thinking about this:

I had a one bedroom apartment not far from the Frank Lloyd Wright studio in Oak Park. The outside was red brick and dull. You would look past it and not look twice. The lobby was dim and the stairs carpeted and creeky. The banisters, though, were a polished wood, and a small panelled window with colored glass let in a little light as you walked up. When you opened the heavy wooden front door you walked into a small hall, very narrow. To the right was a bathroom and bedroom, to the left was a closet, and straight ahead was a very large room with white walls and polished wooden floors. The original floor in a building many, many years old. The floors were warm in winter because the pipes for the heating ran under them, so that you could walk barefoot no matter how cold.

In the kitchen, I had a row of glass bottles on the window ledge, empty bottles in different colors, one a dark green bottle that had once held dark porter. After work, I would change into sweats or yoga clothes, turn the radio to NPR, turn the switch on the gas stove so that the blue flame flickered and cook dinner. I would chop tomatoes and onions and cilantro. I would boil water and slice bread and cheese. I might pour myself a glass of wine (rarely) or make some tea to keep me company while I cooked. The friendly sounds of Market Place and then the BBC World Report and then jazz. I might read after dinner, for a while, my copies of Vanity Fair, The Weekly Standard (don't ask), the Economist. I might talk to my brother or my parents on the phone, or call friends and make plans for the weekend. I might call my neighbor upstairs for a walk or do a bit of yoga. Nothing so different from life as I know it today. Full and peaceful. But, as I recall, that was also a year of lovely turmoil and confusions and entreaties and tears and joy. I might tell you more, but not everything need be public.

I recall: driving along Lake Shore Drive listening to electronic sounds cut with tabla, heart full, heart afraid. I didn't know the future then. I know it now. I know a part of it now. I know a part of it now.

SHE IS THE CUTEST THING

Baby K is now toddler K and we love, love, love her. She talks now! She says hi and moo (for cow) and mommy and da and baa (for sheep) and then: I wub youuuu. How freakin' cute is that?

CONUNDRUM

Why is it that everyone thinks P. Diddy's slogan 'vote or die' is silly, but everyone (er, me) thinks that New Hampshire's state motto, 'Live Free or Die' is cool? People are not consistent.

THE RESIDENTS ARE WORKING LATE TONIGHT

'What are you doing here?' I say to the resident. ' You should be home by now.'

'I have to review some cases for conference tommorrow and finish the consults,' the resident says.

'Well, don't stay too late,' I say.

COZY

The parents are staying. Which means non-stop Bloomberg television (watch the stocks go up and down, up and down), good home cooked Ameri-Indian food and curling up on the couch watching sitcoms and football. Everybody Loves Raymond makes my mother laugh - her face crinkles up and her eyes crinkle up and she shakes her head. "Dysfunctional," says my father. "They are dysfunctional." And he laughs, too. Silently, with a funny little furrow of his brow, not unlike the crinkly cosiness of mom.

"No," says my mother, "that's what a real family is like. All this phoniness, all this pretending, here in US. People are so afraid to talk. They are lonely." Like all immigrants, my mother has a narrative that says this is better about America and that is better about the mother country. The narrative serves a purpose. The narrative makes things make sense. Like, well, a narrative. A story, with a meaning. With a moral. And in my mother's narrative, people in America are good and honest, but sometimes lonely because they expect a kind of perfection that is sterile. If only America would listen to this nice Indian mother. She'd sort them out, all right. And God help you all if she decided to do just that. Goodness.

HAPPY DIVALI

Y'all. And no. This is not a hint to get me a divali (diwali, deepavali?) gift or anything.....

WHININESS NOTICED

Er, ignore that last post. Sheesh. Of course I want people to read this thing. Why else would I make it public on the good old internets? Ignore the whine.....