Comedy of Errors II: HELP, There Is A Bird In My Purse!

H: Are we planning to cook tonight?
Me: I don’t know, do you want to?
H: I don’t know.
Me: Lets just eat out, where do you want to go?
H: Hmm…. is Chilli’s OK?
Me: Yea sure not a problem.

A normal conversation, one that has been replayed many times prior to this day. Nothing indicated that what was to follow would be anything but normal. There was no sign, no forewarning, just two naïve girls looking forward to eating dinner.

The stagnant air inside the car had heated up to an unbearable degree. I switched on the air conditioning. It was just a 5-minute journey, we made it in 10. The traffic was relentless.

H: Why don’t you park closer? Anyway it’s a pick up.
Me: It’s just a row away! OK Fine I will park closer.

I wonder now if things would have been different if I had insisted that we remain parked where we were? Was this the reason for sloth to be named as one of the 7 deadly sins? I parked the car. Close, real close. H, got out and waited on the pavement meanwhile I stepped out, opened the back door and reached for my purse…

MWWWAAARRRRGGHHH!

Me: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT SOUND?
H: I don’t know some bird in the trees or something
Me: OMG! OMG! DID I RUN OVER SOME BIRD OR SOMETHING?
H: No re, lets go.

I didn’t believe her. This thing that made that sound seemed to be in agony and seemed very close. I stooped low to check under the car. Nothing. I reluctantly reached for my purse again. Time seemed to move in slow motion. H waiting, my trembling hands reaching for the purse, pausing, my fingers curling over the handle. Me turning to look at H, she turning her head away.

In the middle of a busy parking lot I felt so alone.

I grabbed the purse. No hideous wailing, no unearthly scream capable of waking the dead. Just the sound of my shallow breathing and sweet silence. I picked up my purse and slammed the door shut.

MWAAAAARGH! MAAAAAAHRG!

Me: SHIT!! IT’S FROM MY PURSE! SOMETHING IN MY PURSE!

I flung my purse and it landed on the hood of the car.

Me: OMG! OMG! WHAT IS IT? WHAT IS IT?
Me: DO I HAVE A BIRD OR SOMETHING IN MY PURSE?
Me: SHIT….SHIT…SHIT!!!
H: Don’t be crazy, how can something go inside you purse?
Me: I DON’T KNOW! SHIT!
H: It must be somewhere else, just take your purse.
Me: You are right. Ok breath, relax, I can’t have a bird in my purse. That’s crazy. I am going to just reach out and poke my purse and no sound will come. Ok breath now!

With courage I did not know I possessed, I hesitantly reached to poke my purse.

MWWWWAAAAAAARGGGGHHHHH!

Me: IT”S IN MY PURSE!
Me: (Close to bawling my eyes out) H please help…please god…OMG HEEEEEEEELP!!!
Me: Please H poke my purse once, I can’t do it!
H: Oh God! You are crazy! Fine I will do it.

H in a pretend nonchalant manner reached out to poke my purse. She poked. Nothing. The purse lay on the hood of my car as innocent as a newborn babe. As if everything that had just transpired was just a figment of my imagination.

Was this senility? Was the psychosis that I had so feared now finally emerging?

H: (Clearly relieved) Look nothing happened. Just take your purse and lets go it’s getting late.

“Its all a Maya”

I reach for my purse. I pick it up.

MUUUAARGH!!

A minute of silence follows.

Me: Haaaahhaaaa LOL LOL HAHAHAH OMG hahaahha
H: Whats wrong with you? Are you OK why are you laughing?
Me: HAHAHAH! OMG OM!! HAHHA!!
Me: Okay..lets go in, HAHAHA!! I will tell you later…OMG, HAHAHA, I know what’s making that sound HAHHAHA.....

Two weeks ago I had gone shopping and among my purchases was this adorable cow keychain. It had a green nose that seemed it would glow in the dark but didn’t. It also had a tiny paper sticking out of its udders that said pull here. Yes, Really, and stop sniggering, what are you like 5? Anyway I pulled the little paper out and waited but nothing happened. I prodded and poked, but the Cow-chain remained placid in a way only a bovine can manage.

I never really noticed the tiny little bump jutting out of the head of the Cow-chain in all its insidious glory.

Comedy of Errors: Preface

Strange things happen to me. Or more appropriately I make strange things happen. These “events” for lack of a better word, dramatize my otherwise mundane life….unfortunately NOT in a good way. However me enduring acute embarrassment, paranoia and potential Jail time scare seems to hold infinite twisted amusement value for others. Hence in the name of social service, Martians, various sundry bacteria and shameless beings finding humor in the misery of others, I will attempt to chronicle a series of random events in my recent past with a title appropriately borrowed from Willy boy- Comedy of Errors

Weirdo Magnet

You now how there are those rare occasions when some line of a movie or some lyrics of a song or a passage from a book strikes a chord with you? For me it was when Max Bialystock (in The Producers) played by the fabulous Nathan Lane traumatized by seeing the seemingly normal Leo Bloom (Matthew Broderick) pulling out his blanket and curling up on the floor into a fetal position; raises his hand, looks heavenwards and questions in despair-

"They come here. They all come here. How do they find me?"

I see weird people. Literally!

The propensity of strange characters who unerringly seem to find me and then much to my horror proceed to have long drawn out conversations, has led me to believe that I am some sort of a Weirdo Magnet. Snake eyes, the Russian, the reformed dope head who sees angels and demons and wants to be a teacher, the balding salsa dancing desi, the Amway (or something similar) guy, are all but few of the plethora of strange beings I have so far encountered.

However this post is not about any one particular person but about a strange affliction some of them seem to have, VD. No not THAT VD but…you know… Verbal Diarrhea? The UrbanDictionary has several interesting definitions, but I would like to define it as a person whom I have never met previously, opens his or her mouth to say Hi and ends up spewing everything I never needed to know about that person.

No seriously, just the other day I happened to meet a really nice, normal, good looking, middle aged lady. But by the time I said goodbye to her (like in 5 minutes), I knew her father was a manic depressant, she may be bipolar, her brother living in Canada is married to an Indian, she (my weirdo not her sister-in-law) suffers from shingles, her mother was a saint, she has a step daughter and she is worried that she married a man just like her father!

I mean come on give me a break….all I said was HELLO!!!

Sole Food

It was raining that night.....well actually its raining tonight, but it wasn’t when I decided that I was in dire need of some Indian groceries. I wasn’t really in dire needs but taking care of trivialities meant one, I could turn a blind eye to more significant items in my “to do” list. Secondly I would get to go out and grab dinner. All in all, a brilliant plan.

So I landed up in Hancock Street with the dubious pleasure of selecting a venue for satiating my gastronomical desires. The aforementioned rain however cut short my mental deliberation and I entered the ubiquitous Honk Kong eatery. A look around the place showed that it was frequented by connoisseurs of “authentic cuisine” by which I mean the Chinese. Feeling a little out of place I decided to brave it out and that’s where the trouble began. Have you ever gone to one of these Chinese restaurants where the menu seems to go on and on filled with food you would never eat unless undergoing Chinese torture and soon all the items start blurring? Well thats what happened to me. All I could see was a jumble of words with a few oddities sticking out, fried jellyfish, tongue of sheep, fried pig skin so on so forth. Feeling a little desperate (the server was waiting for my order) I ordered the first thing that seemed appetizing, pan fried sole with scallions and ginger. Along with it I also ordered a mango smoothie.

I sipped my smoothie which strangely seemed to be concocted out of raw mangoes and awaited my dinner. I heard a voice say, “One pan fried sole?” and I turned my head to look at the dish and just stared mutely. Waking myself up from a stupor, I nodded my head and gave the server a weak smile. This thing, this monstrosity of a fish, was humongous. It could have been easily devoured by a family of four but here I was my sole self with the sole fish. I got a sudden feeling that my fellow diners seemed more interested in my food than their own and I studiously avoided all prying eyes. Wondering for the umpteenth time as to why I get myself into these scraps, I tentatively took my first bite. Thankfully the dish was quite good and I let out a sigh of relief. Stuck with ten pounds of unappetizing fish especially when one is starving is a horror no person should undergo. I was able to finish a quarter of the fish when I laid down my chopsticks and gestured for the bill. The sole now impossibly fitted in a carry away box was on the table along with the bill. I took a look and for the second time in the space of one hour I nearly screamed out "What the f***!!" The fish cost 28 freaking dollars!!! I had somehow like the unerring nose of a Rottwieler sniffed out probably the costliest item in the menu. Calling myself all sorts of names, with my pocket lighter of 35 dollars I strode out of the restaurant with the rest of the sole in tow.

It was pouring now and after getting the groceries from the Kashmir Store, I came home. As for the sole, maybe I should just freeze and preserve it so that the next time I get any bright ideas I can take peek at it and regain my sanity.

My Hate List: The News Edition

1. I hate that China humiliated India and we bullied Sri Lanka
2. I hate people/media who talk rot about Angelina Jolie.
3. I hate Rediff’s entertainment section headline : “Madhuri beautiful or old”
4. I hate all the hoopla about the Iphone
5. I hate Paris Hilton and I hate the press even more for constantly putting her in the public eye.
6. I hated Vir Sanvi’s column belittling President Kalam
7. I hate all those who sent hate mail to Sashi Tharoor for his article 'Why is India's Picasso staying away?”

A TOAST....

Tonight I had planned to watch a movie that I have already seen, LOVE ACTUALLY. I knew that I would enjoy it nearly as much as I did the first time around. A British film, it boasts of a heavy duty star cast- Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, Keira Knightly, Colin Firth and Alan Rickman to name just a few. As the title suggests its central theme is a love story actually multiple love stories deftly interwoven to create a wonderful film that stands far apart from the normal run of the mill romantic movies that we often get to watch these days. The brilliant casting albeit plays a major role in the films success.

But today I am not going discuss this movie. As I mentioned above I had planned to watch it again but the movie that I finally did end up watching was SHADOWS IN THE SUN. The story outline read “an editor who is also an aspiring writer tracks down a reclusive literary legend living in rural Italy so as to convince him to write again”. It did not sound very interesting but the only other option I had was Legally Blond and am I glad that good sense prevailed. Shadows in the Sun (also known as Shadow Dancer) was a fantastic film. It was unexpectedly hilarious, whimsical and at same time poignant. The characters are funny, outrageous, vulnerable yet utterly believable and leave you behind with a burning desire to join them on their regular Monday night jaunts of wine drinking and karaoke. But however good the movie was, it is almost overshadowed by its brilliant location. Set in a tiny village bathed in golden sunlight, tucked away in the Tuscan hills in rural Italy, it will make even an ardent city lover pack their bags and baggage and head off to the countryside. Stunning architecture, golden sunsets, lush verdant hills and crystal clear streams nearly succeed in seducing you to ignore the story that is unfolding.

However I really wanted to talk about in this post was not the movies (although I guess I may have fooled you in believing I did) but a dialogue from the movie Shadows in the Sun. The talented, eccentric, writer, Weldon Parish played by Harvey Keitel, tells the persistent editor incidentally also an aspiring writer who is suffering from self doubt the following statement:

"You don’t choose art but art chooses you."

The point he was trying to make was that being creative or ability to produce art was a gift, an inherent talent and despite all the hardship an artist may have to suffer, ultimately a privilege. For some reason I was disturbed by that statement. Are creativity and artistic temperament and ability really for the fortuitous few, with the rest of the populace filling the role of silent spectators, watching from the sidelines, able only to appreciate but not create?

While some may argue that a lot of people may just not be interested in being creative or producing a piece of art, I would beg to differ. The doting aunt knitting beautiful, warm sweaters for their favorite nephew or niece, the bashful bathroom singer belting out songs under the pouring water, moms baking divine chocolate cakes and artfully decorating them for their child, the women in rural India creating magnificent rangolis during festivals, the backbencher copiously filling his textbook with caricatures, the jovial uncle who is the life of the party cracking jokes and keeping everyone in splits, kids coming up with fantastic storylines and having the time of their life role playing, the thousands of bloggers posting their writing regularly at a public domain; they all belie the statement above. Art is not for just a chosen few, there resides a performer hiding inside all of us and knowingly or unknowingly it surfaces during different facets of our lives. The only difference is that for some people it just comes easier than for the others.

This post is a toast to celebrate the artist that exists inside all of us.

SALUD!!!

Identity Crisis

Chaotic, maddening, diverse, complicated and thoroughly enjoyable are words I associate with India hence the current debate and controversy about the Indian identity in America is not a surprise.

The issue at hand is a subject of vital important. The consequence of which will stay with us for generations to come. The question that resides in the heart of every Indian living in America; what shall we be called? Recently I met a Native American who inquired about my ethnicity, to which I immediately answered Indian. At his bafflement I had to clarify that I was from India. It was an awkward moment to say the least. I felt a vague sense of disquiet that my very identity had been taken over due to the stupidity of a voyager on a journey to India who had mistaken the indigenous people of a completely different continent as Indians. As in Indians from India, see my point about it being complicated?

In America the term Asian is generally associated with people from China, Japan, Korea and other such regions. As Sadanand Dhume puts it, "Asian" in America means Chang, not Chakravarti; Kong, not Kumar. South Asian would mean lumping us together with countries that do not match us in scale or proportion. Besides that only addresses the general classification not the actual denomination.

A commonly used term I hear a lot and dislike profoundly is East Indian. This does not make any sense as we would be East Indians as opposed to being West Indians? Besides we are from India not East India. Recently the US census bureau published data about the Asian community, the report was titled “We the People: Asians in the United States.” It has some very interesting facts and figures about the Asian Diaspora and by that I mean all people belonging to the Asian continent living in the United States. The term used for referring to Indians was ASIAN INDIAN. That in itself doesn’t sound bad albeit it’s a bit unfair that every other ethnic group were termed as per their country of origin such as Filipino, Vietnamese, Thai and so forth. It would however become further complicated if you would want to address the so called “Asian Indians” who are born in America and are American citizens. Would they be awkwardly referred to as “Asian Indian Americans”?

There are no easy answers. When Shakespeare had written that "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet." He clearly had no clue what he was talking about and definitely never met an Indian (India Indians!!!) in his life. We love names. Most of us have atleast two, both completely unrelated. We perform elaborate ceremonies to celebrate the naming of a baby. We not only classify ourselves as Indians but also the community to which we belong. We have a seperate name for each and every relationship that exists under the sun as against a generic Aunt or an Uncle.

I am named Sanchita Banerjee fondly called Mona by my family with some of them preferring to call me Shonamoni and occasionally also called Babai, Tinku and Tweety. I am a Bengali, a West Bengali (as opposed to being from East Bengal or Bangladesh as we call it), an Indian, a South Asian, an Asian, an Asian Indian, possibly in the future an Asian Indian American, a Human, an Earthling and ultimately an insubstantial, inconsequential speck when compared to the vast expanse of the universe. Am I still me or does each identity brings forth a different perspective of my being?

And they said what’s in a name!!!

Sanchita, may I have my life back now please?

Have you ever wondered if somebody else was living your life? The life that you envision for yourself not only during nocturnal visits to dreamland but also when you are wide awake. While you are stuck in placid innocuousness of your daily dealings, somebody somewhere is doing the things you want to do… Staying in a place you want to stay…. Living the life you want to live!!! Last night while chatting with a friend, we were fooling around with the search button that I had always seen but never used in MSN Messenger. I typed my name and to my consternation, I was led to a website where my namesake, SANCHITA was living MY LIFE!!!! And all I want to ask of her is; may I have my life back now please?

Our FANTABULOUS weekend trip to Los Angeles…………

The one that we did not go too…..

Friday night some vague hour!
Ok guys we were supposed to leave at 9:00pm sharp, its 10 already lets go go GO!!! Listen we should stop by Frys or something to get some munchies. The car has a cd player right? Now if only we had some cd’s, I wish I had Kandisa and no for the umpteenth time I don’t have it I had a cassette and even that I proably lost. By the way, I am offering my services to keep awake anybody who is driving, yup being a night owl has some uses! So are you guys excited??? I can’t believe we are actually going away this week…WOW, congratulations are in order although I guess we should save it for when we actually cross the border. Ok people, so what do you wanna listen too? Really do we have too, just asking!


Driving to LA

Saturday morning….at some ungodly hour

What’s the time, 6:00? Do you guys realize I am 3:00 hours behind my sleeping schedule? Yes yes I know you are the ones who did all the driving but do you know how much effort it takes to entertain people while they are driving? Ok OK, lets not argue but find our hotel and get some shut eye or else they will have to shoot a sequel to the movie Red Eye starring ME!!!! Yes I think this is it….lets just get our room keys and SULEEEEP…..


Our room

Saturday noon or something kinda like that!

Ok wake up WAKE Up…no no wait, sleep, go back to sleep. I call tabs on the shower first. Well this way you get more time to sleep and more importantly unlke other people whose name I will not mention I do not take an HOUR to get ready!!! Protest all you like but we all know the truth. I am off to get ready, hmm wonder what I should wear…..(some time later) lets go have a quick lunch and then do some absolutely corny, touristy things…so where are we having lunch? Yes I am fine with wherever too but where exactly do you mean by wherever?


Where else?

Saturday afternoon dong some corny touristy things….
Definitely the beach first, I want to make some sand castles. Wow look at those boats. Ok I vote that we take the tour aboard the vintage touring yacht first. Then go to the light house plaza, hang out there for a while then go to the beach and build some sand castles!!!


The Tour


Lighthouse Plaza


Who am I kidding?

Ok yeah I am ready to leave just let me make the door to the ante chamber a little more accessible.....OK OK RELAX we are leaving…so what next? Lets drive around Beverly hills look at the houses pretend we own one of them. Do you know if Brad Pitt has a house here or should we just try to see Angelina Jolie’s place?? hehehe! No we are not searching around for Jennifer Aniston’s house. Besides I don’t think they live here anyway. We will also check out the Hollywood sign and when we are a little fresher do the -walk of fame…roll out the red carpets here I come. Hey how come my name is not in a star? Or should we go to Mann’s theater you decide. Come on, lets get a sounivier for the certain somebody who didnt come with us.


Hollywood


Lets take a walk... with the stars


Mann's Chinese theater

Saturday evening

Do you think we have time to change before we go out for dinner? I know it will take long but I have sand all over me…oh yeah for dinner we HAVE to go to Spazios...… they serve Italian but more imporatntly they play live JAZZ!


Good food...good music...good LIFE!

Saturday night
Zzzzzzzz………..zzzzzzzzz…….zzzzzzz…..ZZZZZ.zzz.zzzz………….

Sunday morning/ afternoon/evening

Ok who has the tickets to Universal studios….I am soooo excited and somewhat scared…what if I puke?? Oh! Come on I was kidding, you have to sit with me on the ride. No really I am serious you will sit with me right?Anybody? Universal studio directions…hmmm we don’t want to get lost like last evening. Hey I never volunteered to navigate and no it’s not the default option. I am terrible with directions particularly if somebody is pressurizing me!! Anyway lets leave, their will be a huge crowd. We don’t have to do all the rides, as if we can, but we have to do “the revenge of the Mummy”, “the terminator” “the Jurassic park ride” and I want to see “Shrek 2 in 4 –D” whatever that means. Yeah we won’t stay beyond 4 as the parking rates after that are outrageous as it is we are paying through our nose for gas! Stupid Katrina! Besides I want to freshen up and rest a bit before we go for Gaelic Storm concert!!! Oh my god I am super excited about the concert…she wants a pina colada in a pint glass... la la la la la…


Revenge of the Mummy-COOL!!!


Donkey 4-D- Cho Chweet!


Terminator- WHOA!!!!


Gaelic Storm...Gotta Love Them!!!!

Sunday night

We will leave at 5:00 am sharp, somebody set the alarm in their phone. Ok that means we get 5 hours of sleep…wasn’t the concert fantastic??? Yeah I am exhausted too. Good night. I think i had too much cotton candy. I like the Mummy ride better than Terminator and I hated the back to the future one...yes FAYNE I will let you sleep, final good night. You too....

Monday….

Bye bye Los Angels, hello Arizona!

P.S.- my next post will be about my actual vacation which will be SUPERFANTABULOUS or so I hope....

disclaimer: this is a purely fictious vacation and should not be used as a reference for holiday plans. However the author has based it on actual events and locations.

Care for Some Chinese?

During my final year of architecture I went to Singapore with my dad on the pretext of doing my thesis. It was the Chinese New Year and the hotel we were staying in, seved a buffet of traditional Chinese food every night. Being the conniving person that I am, I convinced my dad that we should go native for a day even though it came with a price tag of 40$ per person. With reluctance, a staunch supporter of maacher jhol and bhaat (fish curry and rice) and the spicy Mughlai cusine, my dad agreed.

The receptionist with whom we completed the transaction, gave us a skeptical look and felt duty bound to inform us that authentic Chinese food usually does not appeal the Indian palette. With nonchalance I dragged my father who was still grieving over the 80$ to the dining area. We took a look around the buffet table and saw it filled with a variety of strange and exotic dishes in a range of colors, shapes and sizes but unfortunately completely unrecognizable.

As we were seated, the server asked us as to what kind of stock we would prefer in our steamboat, of all the options, chicken seemed the safest bet. A big dish filled with chicken stock and a lamp underneath to heat it, was delivered to our table. After waiting a couple of minutes for further developments, we realized that THIS WAS IT! A quick survey told us that apparently all the items displayed at the table were raw and needed to be cooked in the steamboat. My dad, who had sported a somewhat bewildered look, now resembled a thundering cloud. The prospect of eating 80$ worth of steamed food that too ones that he did not recognize and needed to cook himself, threatened to make my journey in this planet a very short one!

Pacifying him yet mentally completely shaken up, I bravely joined the queue and filled our plates with a bit of everything and dumped it all in our now overflowing steamboat. After 30 minutes and the food not having changed in either color or consistency I began to get desperate, the thundering cloud i.e. my dad by now had started spouting threats of retribution. 45 minutes later, the dish still unchanged and our stock rapidly diminishing, we concluded that the food was cooked.

Very gingerly with a sickly smile pasted on my face, I transferred some of the gunk to my plate and bravely put some in my mouth, I swallowed took a sip of water and then repeated the action. My dad took one look at my face, sprang into action and immediately ordered me to stop the insanity. We slipped out of the diner unnoticed with our steamboat groaning under the weight of all the wasted food.

I was recalling the incident yesterday, when for lunch, I had a serving of Chicken Hakka Noodles- Indian Ishtyle !!!! Which brings me to this article I read---hilarious and completely TRUE.....

The Indian Bazaar and Lament for my Loss of Anonymity

A trip to Lajpat Nagar for my shopping needs left me dazzled. It was my first trip after my return to an Indian bazaar. The initial reaction to the sheer population aside, the immediate impact is that of color. Vibrant hues of yellows and blues, greens and reds, black and white and every color in between, paint a veritable rainbow on the streetscape. Patterns, weaves, fabric and texture agglomerate to clothe the urban mass. Observing the dress code, it brings forth to light the ease with which India blends and morphs the old and the new to come up with something novel and unique yet undoubtedly Indian. Other than saris, kurtas, jeans and skirts- a lot of fusion wear can be seen. Jeans, sleeveless tops matched with an exquisite and intricate dupatta. Short kurtis paired with skirts or jeans; tops, shirts, skirts and trousers in bright traditional patterns. The sheer style, beauty, craftsmanship and distinctness of design make India a shopping haven for fabric and ready-to-wear garments.

In India a huge population is multilingual. Being from Delhi I am comfortable with Hindi and English but my mother tongue is Bengali. The language I am probably most comfortable with would involve a kichdi or a mixture of the above – Hibelish! That rhymes with gibberish doesn’t it? The advantages of speaking a language that the majority of people in the streets don’t understand cannot be emphasized enough. In India where space is at a premium, it provides you precious minutes of privacy with your chosen ones and blocks out all the strangers trying to push through that barrier. Particularly while shopping with my mom, it would be a big asset to discuss price, general attitude of shopkeepers and other sundry details right in front of the person in question. Hence with this comforting knowledge I stepped inside a shop to buy a hair conditioner. The salesman while showing a few products was extremely insistent on a particular brand, a brand I had never heard off. After a few vigorous attempts to sell us the conditioner I smiled wryly and told my mother in Bengali "it seems that Mr. salesman here owns the company making the conditioner!" To my shock and dismay the man behind the counter responded indignantly in somewhat broken Bengali…"madam do you think if I owned the company I would be working here?" I made the best of the situation and brazened my way out of this awkward moment and ended up buying the unknown brand conditioner. Sacrificing a few hairs on my head seemed like a small price to pay at that time. I had barely recovered from that incident when we landed at another shop to buy gifts for some kids, the salesman had a distinct northeast- Nepali look, definitely no Bengali lurking behind his innocent façade, or so I thought! Hence while taking a closer look at pencil boxes I told my mom that we shouldn’t buy them as the quality was not top notch. Well you guessed it, of course he understood Bengali and enthusiastically denied my statements. He proudly stated not only could he understand Bengali but could even speak a spattering of the language! All I could do was shake my head in absolute desbelief. On my way back home from the shopping trip sitting in an auto-rickshaw, I grieved for the loss of my anonymity!!!

Delhi in Disarray

Delhi is in red alert due to the bomb blasts that took place in two cinema halls playing the controversial movie Jo Bole So Nihal A third explosion took place just hours after the first two blasts near a railway crossing. Absence of metal shrapnel and few other key factors limited the death toll to one and the injured to seventy people. The movie has reportedly been removed from theaters all over India albeit no direct link has been established between the incident and the screening of the movie.

I must confess that my initial reaction was utterly selfish and self-serving. The thought that crossed my mind was- Shoot, my parents will never let me watch Revenge of the Sith!!!! And yes I do feel terribly ashamed….

On a lighter vein while discussing the incident with my cousins, we talked about how unfortunate it was that people of the Sikh community had to resort to such measures to stop a film which itself was made by a Sikh director and had a Sikh hero as the lead. Then we hypothesized that it was not really the Sikhs, but Islamic terrorists who had instigated the blasts so as to revive the distrusts between the Hindus and Sikhs. And then somebody came up with the idea that maybe the Hindu fundamentalists had actually done the dastardly deed because they too had reasoned that the people would come to the aforementioned conclusion - that the Muslims did it…Thus creating tension between the Hindu and Muslim communities!!

Conspiracy theories aside, the blasts need to be strongly condemned and all efforts should be taken to find the culprits immediately. Delhi has been the victim of riots in 1984 with horrific consequences. Everybody suffered and the wounds are yet not entirely healed. All it requires is a scratch for it to burst forth and spill blood. Having lost an uncle in 84, who was gunned down when he stepped out to help a wounded man outside his house, I know first hand the pain and terror associated with riots. All terrorist acts in the name of religion are the most grievous of offences and needs to be nipped right at the bud. I am but an ignorant human but the one thing I do believe with all my heart is that the quality that stands above all others human virtues and cherished most by God is love.

As the great soul Swami Vivekananda said,

Love Is The Law Of Life:

All love is expansion, all selfishness is contraction.

Love is therefore the only law of life.

He who loves lives, he who is selfish is dying.

Therefore, love for love's sake, because it is law of life,

just as you breathe to live.