Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Musing
Friday, February 27, 2009
Making it your own
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The sun and the wind
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Snowball farce
Monday, January 19, 2009
Making history
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Finding solid ground
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The adventure is rolling along
Monday, August 4, 2008
Old beginnings and new adventures
So it's difficult to say: this trip's meaning to myself. It was a lot of things. I decided on going to India more than a year ago today. It was a response to seeing dearth and distress in the streets of Delhi, a realization that I, more than most people that perhaps are not college-educated or have as many resources, could help. I believed that anything, even something small, could change the life of someone. But plans themselves are not a means to an end, there are various things that must fall into place for something like what I had in mind to happen. By December of last year, I had somehow come to the conclusion that volunteering was not enough because it meant momentary impact. As I found out by the end of this internship however, anything done in such a short amount of time -- 2 months -- means momentary impact.
But like many things in life, what transpired in Jodhpur was inadvertent. Sure, I completed what I set out to do: a research project that has the potential to impact many people; but I felt more than that. I remembered what it feels like to be in India: and I've written about it in previous posts. To me, it is difficult to distinguish what I really am and where I really come from. I asked this question to a friend at the guest house I was staying out, and I find it relevant: at what point are you not Indian, not Kenyan, not Japanese, not Korean ... at what point are you American? And the response I received was simplistically perfect: when you want to be. I find that poignant and something that I will take with me for years to come because it is true: whenever I, my children, my grandchildren, decide to break that bond with the subcontinent that so ominously sits below the Himalayas -- we are from America.
But it was also what I felt in the desert villages. It speaks to how fortunate I really am when I say that it took me twenty years to see real poverty. It took me twenty years to see someone struggle to survive. I'm glad that I saw it. Walking through a place that is devoid of water and anything resembling convenience hurts. It's painful to understand that they are used to suffering: their condition isn't suffering at all: it's living.
And beyond all of this I have a confession: I don't think I can do it. For the past year, while securing funding to undertake this project, all I thought was: I just want to help -- someone, somewhere, somehow. And the thought is more noble than the action. To be honest, I thought I had found my calling before I even embarked on my plane ride to India: I was ready to dedicate my life to serving those less fortunate. But it's hard ... it's very difficult. It's not something that can be romanticized. While in Jodhpur, I just didn't love it. I couldn't find that feeling of pure glee at my work. I didn't want to be there. I didn't really want to be there. At some points my work became just something I needed to finish, not something I was interested in completing. Maybe the harsh conditions of where I worked, or the heat of the summer, or the circumstances of what was going on around me played into my feeling of apathy for what I was doing. But I hated feeling it: I hated not loving what I was doing. Because admitting to myself that I did not like what I considered my life's goal was unacceptable. So now as I reflect I can't help but compromise: I want to help but I don't know if I can do it in the way I have this summer. In other words, I don't know if I really desire to sacrifice everything else to help the less fortunate, but perhaps there are other ways to do it.
After the internship, I spent a brief three days in Punjab visiting a few relatives, many of which I did not remember meeting before. It was a good trip, mainly because I saw many things I neglected or refused to fully see the last time I was there -- 10 years ago. Or perhaps, even more, my perspective had changed. They were incredible people and accommodated my every need (though I tried not to have many). Many of my relatives there are rice farmers or small store owners outside of Chandigarh; the ones that live in Chandigarh do other things and are considerably more wealthy (I guess you have to be to live there). It was a very valuable thing to see what I saw in those short three days because it is, in the simplest way, humbling. It is humbling to see where my family comes from and understand that it was complicated, a series of random events that led to our settling in the United States. And it's humbling to see the one-room house and five-person family that my grandmother was born into it. It's not that I haven't appreciated what I have before, but facing the past (which is the present for those that still live there) allowed me to sort of put reality into achieving dreams, if that makes sense.
All in all, two months and one day elapsed in India where I visited Delhi, Jodhpur, various desert villages, Jaisalmer, Nasrali, Kohata, Ludhiana, Patiala, and Chandigarh. Right now I am in England with my Duke roomate, Kyu, till tomorrow morning. An 11 AM flight to Raleigh/Durham will no doubt be accompanied by some sort of sleep. London is serving as a noble buffer between the two lands, though admittedly expensive. I'm sure I'll see you soon.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
When dreams stay dreams
After letting this sink in for a bit, I wondered to myself: what if Mario was Indian? What if Mario's parents decided not to live in Italy but instead in Kolkata? Well, first of all I bet his name would not be Mario and he wouldn't have a brother named Luigi. It would most likely be something like Zeeshan and Rahul, which wouldn't be that bad.
Imagine: Super Zeeshan. Or playing Zeeshan Kart and fighting over who'll be Rahul (though who really wants to be Luigi anyway). All these things are fine, but it would also completely change Mario's look. He'd no longer sport suspenders and patent leather shoes. I don't think he'd even be a plumber (because India sure doesn't seem to offer it as a profession). I scoured Google for any pictures of an Indian Mario, but had no luck. I imagine he would be wearing some sort of cotton attire, perhaps hand-made but who knows (hey mom and dad!). He'd wear sandals leisurely stained with cow poop. As a matter of fact, Yoshi would be a cow. The game would be completely turned upside down.
But there's more. His catch phrase: "It's a'me! ... Mario" -- which to be honest I never really understood, it's a tad bit obvious unless you're literally blind. What would the Indian version be? Of course it could be in English, pretty much everyone here knows a form of the language. I think it would it would either be "What country from?" in the most heavily caked Indian accent or for the hardcore Hindi version "Paise de do!".
Either way, it would be an outstanding game both in the sheer amount of colors and in stray dogs. I'm sure there would be more realistic dangers as opposed to the man-eating flowers and waddling potato looking creatures. Things like heavy traffic, fried okra, and water-borne diseases (all serious things!) would be on the loose. It would be a true test of fortitude and not some silly children's game.
This may have a market, ... I'll go as Super Zeeshan for Halloween to check it out. But after I contemplated the possibilities for a little while I got back to the guest house, drowned by French tourists for the fifth time in as many days. They just keep on coming.
I'm thinking I may need to do some sight-seeing on the only day of the week that's actually off: tomorrow. It's too bad all of the other long-term guests are out and about traveling India this weekend: Chloe is in Jaipur and Juliana is in Mumbai checking out her broken nose with as real of doctor as she can find.
Other big news: the Dark Knight is playing at the cinema in Hindi. Biggest opportunity of my life.
Friday, July 18, 2008
All the small things
Other events are filling the time as well, between writing the report and sitting around. I finished the Namesake -- what a book. I've never read something that summarizes my life so well. For those that haven't read it, it's worth it.
And then there was Jaisalmer. Camels ... need I say more? Now I've ridden camels before but not for six hours a day for two days. What seemed glamorous at first turned into a groin's nightmare as I rode into the desert sun. Edgar, the camel, was comforting however. I liked him more than any other camel I rode; probably because we got to know each other. I'll most likely never forget the guy.
Before we left on the big adventure children propositioned me for a shoe-shining, but I politely refused. To get back at me, they asked for a picture. Apparently, as I later found out, the picture cost "chai". I didn't fall for their shenanigans.
We also toured the city for a while and took a look at the fort. In fact, we stayed inside. There were a large number of Jain temples in the city which sported some interesting signs concerning women and their periods. It makes sense for the most part.
While visiting the Jains, we ran across a very bold tourist wearing spandex biking shorts. His audacity was astounding, but I think he was French. I snapped a picture or two behind his back -- and make no mistake I worked for them, waiting around thirty minutes for him to finish his sight-seeing.
There was also the failed homemade mango beer that exploded during the train ride, on the ride to the fort, and in the hotel. You may ask how something can explode so many times and the answer is an ever-fermenting closed bottle of homemade mango beer.
Anyway, I leave in a week's time. After that I will be in Punjab visiting relatives and then I'm off to England!
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
At the bottom of everything
It is said that before the Thar was a desert it was sea. Before there were roads, cars, or even people it was a vast expanse of blue and sterling waves crashing in every direction. Before half was in Pakistan and half was India, all of it was at the bottom of everything. Here, one could find every type of fish and sea creature. It was not how it is now: a parched, arid land, ignorant of its own irony. It is a land where one can find me on this certain Saturday of July, the sand in between my toes as I drudge toward my next interview resisting and not giving way to progress. This desert is where I have decided to help others but in my mind this notion has become ridiculous and impossible. I think to myself that I cannot help these people because they cannot even help themselves.
I meet Chowdra Ram in the middle of the day. I am here to interview him because he is a beneficiary of GRAVIS’ tanka program. His family was economically disadvantaged enough to need this structure and his thoughts are valuable in assessing its impact on a family. Immediately as we enter his pukka room he brings a bucket of water. I, of course, refuse because of my timidity to such foreign things. He is my third interview of the day, but I still notice his passion. From the white turban expertly wrapped around his head to the crow that seemed to have stepped a hundred times to leave a footprint next to his eye, I can tell he has really lived for years. He has no doubt lived through the Partition and British Rule, the years of good rains and the years of bad rain. He has lived to bear children who have themselves bore children. But now he is reduced. He does not go for wage labor or anything that the earner of the household usually does, he lets his son do these things. Now he does the miscellaneous tasks; he does the little things that no less must be done. At the bottom of everything the little things matter: feeding the cattle, collecting the cow pads, and cleaning the tanka. I ask questions in English and he nods and grunts as though he understands, but I know he never had the opportunity to even learn Hindi because he had to work for money as a child. His eyes are full of emotion that radiate as though it is all being released in his focused stare. After a question has been posed it is translated to Marwari. He listens with the same veracity in his nods and grunts and replies with the passion I saw earlier, his hand waving up and down to signal his various points. “Our biggest problem is food ... there have been droughts annually ...” he declares as the interview continues.
We stay afterward while chai is made, and we converse. I leave the brick room that borders the catchment area of the tanka to go to the jeep and fetch my filtered water. On the way back I spot him on the dirt path that sweeps through his barren field devoid of rainwater thus devoid of crop. He is tending to an animal. Once I am close enough he looks at me and places his arm around me, the passion from the interview softened in a way I do not know how to approach. He looks at me and says “Madd Karo” (Help us). I am struck, help you? “Kaisaa” (How?). Still looking at me he replies “Paise de do” (Give money). I say I do not have any and I walk quicker. I walk in such a way that the awkwardness of the situation does not persist; I walk and I think: but I am helping. Isn't this interview helping? Won't my report help? No ... the truth is it won't help in the way that is wanted. Not for these people and not for this man. He does not need someone to ask him questions, and he does not need policy as a result – these things are not important to him at the moment. The salient truth is he needs money, and he needs it now.
At the bottom of everything I also find Divya Bai's household. She is in the field with her cows as we approach in a jeep, and she begins to walk back to her hut through the patchy grass. She covers so that no one can decipher her face through her red, cotton sari; she is a devoted wife even though her husband has already died. This fact about her husband is sad but not unique. There are many widows throughout the Thar. I read my introduction in Hindi before the interview begins. In it, I ask her if she will participate and she says of course. I then tell her that I will not use her name or photo and she responds with laughter. I was not fazed: everyone seems to laugh at this portion of my script because it doesn't matter to them if their name appears in a distant report that they will never even see. Then my translator relays her explanation: that it does not matter because she is at the lowest of the low -- she has no husband and her family has left her alone in this hut with the field. She has been surviving on her own with savings for seventeen long months, and her son has decided to have nothing to do with her. Immediately, my interview feels useless, empty. The questions I am asking her seem inconsequential and without substance. “How did the tanka meet your expectations ... how did you obtain water before … what do you use the water for?”... How are you surviving!? Although the last question was not a part of the interview, I wish I had asked it. This woman has no family anymore and she cannot even think of working for wage away from her home (that is what her husband used to do). The interview ends without asking various questions I had on my sheet. There was nothing more to find out. We left the hut where she lived away from everyone she knew. We walked through her field as she continued the work she had been doing with her cows when we arrived. Her life has not changed one bit from when I arrived to when I left; I have not given her anything tangible. I step onto the metal step that leads into the back of the jeep, and I reach a finality: she will not remember me anyway.
It is the same way with all the families that I interview. I am just a speck and a momentary interruption in their daily lives. I am a blip on the radar; a foreigner that has come and gone. I am introduced as being from 'outside' – America –, but they most likely do not even know where that is in relation to their own location. As much as I may fight it, this feeling will eventually be mutual. I will forget them. As soon as my work finishes here, and I jet off to the United States what will I take with me of Chowdra Ram and Divya Bai? They are what I am to them: a foreigner that has come and gone. An interview I have taken and will have used. They are a population that I have sampled, and they are a part of a report I will have written. But that moment I was asked for money by an aging man that no doubt has little life left to live still bothers me. It is not because of how uncomfortable it made me feel but how powerful the sentiment it was derived from seems to be. The report that I write may never be used again, packed away in the endless files that are in this office. GRAVIS may use it as a reference for a future intern or it may appear in a bibliography of another's writings. My report may never help the people in this desert directly and its lack of permanence, its mortality, is upsetting. I want, however implausible it may sound, immediate impact. But this doesn't happen. It cannot happen. This internship is an exercise in patience, and for all intensive purposes a warm up for my future. One day I will not be a blip or a fleeting face, but I will be able to help in a way that is pragmatic and sustainable.
I watched my charcoal gray shorts rest on my thighs as the day was ending and we drove restlessly toward the field center. I looked around me and imagined the life that used to occupy this space. Perhaps a whale swam here or a goldfish there. I imagined how full it used to be. I then looked around me and quit day-dreaming. I saw the golden specks whisked up by the tires and the sun taking its time to leave these godforsaken plains. It is here I have chosen to try to help people, but I believe that I have lost some hope. I am comforted by only one thing: from the bottom of everything there is only one direction.
Figure 2: A child of an interviewed family
Monday, July 7, 2008
I have finished all of my interviews! It is very exciting. I went to the field Thursday til Sunday to complete eighteen interviews in five villages, and it was excruciatingly exhausting. I'll post something later that goes into it a little bit.
In other news, Juliana, a girl at my guest house, destroyed my world today when she unveiled the true origin of the word 'Thug'. Although I thought it to have been a direct descendant of the American hip-hop scene, it is in fact a word derived from the Hindi 'Thuggee'. They were bandits that committed mass tourist murders, eventually eliminated by the British (of course). In some ways this is actually more cool than what I used to think of the word but come on, Hindi?
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thuggee
Friday, June 27, 2008
Every night
I laid on the thin cloth-covered pad that was confiscated from a room downstairs at the Baap Field Center. During the summers, it is common to sleep on the roof to avoid the suffocating heat of the inconsistent indoor fans. The pillow under my head expedited the perspiring as my body desperately looked for ways to cool. Below me and around the field center was the unassuming desert, where sand shifted for no one. Above me was the stale darkness, littered with tiny holes. “How is the weather in America, can you see the stars?” a GRAVIS field worker questioned in Hindi. “Sometimes, ... sometimes you can see them if it's not cloudy.” I answered with uncertainty as to his motives. “Here, you can see them every night.”
In my first week in Jodhpur I decided to walk to work. It had been a few days, and I felt that the only knowledge of the city I had were the brief mental images of the busy shops and unorganized shantis I took while winding through the streets in a rickshaw. I was confident I knew the direction, so I left my guest house that is situated on the end of an empty street two hours before the work day began and attempted to find my way.
I wore shorts that day, or half-pants in India-speak, because of the weather. I also donned my tan colored cotton shirt to neutralize my look. I walked along familiarities and reasoned that if I got lost in the maze of trash and mud, I would ask someone the way. Every step I took I could feel the eyes of others in cars and on motorcycles closing in on me as they passed, somehow uncovering the secret I unknowingly tried to keep from them. They looked with unabashed expressions toward a face they vaguely recognized. They knew what I had suspected for a while now: I am not Indian.
For forty five minutes I was not sure where I was going, but I would not dare ask a soul like I had previously planned. There were ample opportunities as I passed tea stalls and fruit-vallas, but I knew that the second I opened my mouth and spouted the sentence I had practiced in my head a hundred times since I left the guest house – Milk Men Colony kahaa hai? (Where is Milk Men Colony?) -- they would know that I was not one of them. A conversation between two Indians that did not know each other would turn into a conversation between two people that did not know each other at all. I could not take that risk, perhaps because I did not want to face reality. I walked on.
Thirty minutes later I reached my destination after finding a road sign that pointed me in the right direction. I didn't attempt the walk from my guest house to work again for fear of repeating the uncomfortable nature of that morning. For the rest of the week I resumed riding in a rickshaw.
Days later we drove to a field visit. The drive was short but I was tired and slept in spells with my head bobbing up and down in between consciousness. The car rose and fell over the government road with its four wheels often leaving the ground entirely. We arrived and were led to the guest house where we deposited our things. The place was beautiful. There was a garden in the desert. I couldn't believe that such a thing was possible, and I marveled at GRAVIS' moxie to even endeavor it.
Another intern took me around to tour the center. I saw the school that was nothing more than a concrete room with a small chalkboard, and English and Hindi phrases on the walls. I saw the tube well that supplied the surrounding villages with water. And I met a family; in it were numerous brothers and sisters, one who spoke English fairly well -- Rahul. He extended the tour and showed us things he considered interesting: the wall composed of uneven stone planks that differentiated the various dhanis from the field center, the latrine that was carved neatly into the ground, etc. As the tour was ending he turned to me and said, “At first I thought you were Marwari, and then I thought you were from some other part of India, and then I realized you were American.” He said it so matter-of-fact and with such innocence that I didn't feel the weight of his words right away, but I reflected on it intensely for days afterwards.
Illustration 1: Rahul (top left) and his family
For my entire life I have considered myself Indian. To whomever I've met I delivered this fact with a confidence burned into my being: “100% full blooded, both my parents are Indian.” It should not bother me to be labeled as a person that is not Indian because technically I was not born here; but this is my culture and whenever someone proclaims the discovery of my true birthplace, it feels as though they have stripped me of my most coveted possession: my identity. I am Jasdeep, and I am Indian -- this is who I have always been. But when Rahul looked at me, really looked at me, he saw something I could not see for so many years of my life: I am Jasdeep, and I am not Indian.
Yet those words just don't seem right together. In the first few days of the class that I took in preparation for this experience, every one was asked to individually identify themselves in a sentence. The instructor noted examples of past students stating their religion or their country of origin. He went around the room, and I contemplated what I would say. I blurted something that now is very vague and jumbled in my head – apparently not as significant as I would have liked --, and I hoped the twenty odd faces receiving my words gained something. What I remember of the labels I offered was my name, my religion, and that I am in fact from the South. I do not remember saying 'I am Indian' because it seemed inconsequential in the melting pot of America and even half-presumptive based on my skin color. He moved on and the rest of the class introduced themselves. I am struck now between the disparities of how I would identify myself in different places. In the sprawling cities housing the millions that seek to trade their rags for riches in the United States I am the son of Indian immigrants who came for opportunity; but in the crowded streets resulting from the occupation of over a billion people in India I am the son of Indian emigrants who left their country and their home.
Looking at the sky from my resting place on the roof in Baap, I thought about my home in North Carolina. I thought about how I grew up in a place where, although my parents speak it and urged me to attend lessons, I was not taught Punjabi, the language of my ancestors . I thought about when I was a child in elementary school I wanted to change my name from the often mispronounced Jasdeep to Bob, a tribute to the host of my then-favorite radio station. I thought about when I reached high school my feelings about my name had not changed as a teacher referred to me as Jasmine on the first day of school. I thought about how, completely aware, I sought to lose my culturally identity.
When I reached college my losses seemed starkly apparent among the population of Indians at Duke. I decided I needed to learn something so I took Hindi classes and read Indian history. I have spent the last two summers in India seeking something I can hold on to as I continue my life in America. Between these experiences abroad, I often lay in my dormitory bed at night thinking of all the time I have lost, and when the clouds part and the sky is clearly visible from my window I can connect the dots to construct the Dippers and Orion's Belt (or something that resembles them). I may never be considered Indian by those that actually live in this country, but I will never stop considering myself an Indian because at that moment under the stars in the desert: I knew we shared something. Something, whether they are aware of it or not, they have shared with me every night.
Illustration 2: A rooftop in Jodhpur
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Yes, please
Yes, that is cow poop. And yes it is being used to block a door and two windows, respectively. The sheer number of cow pads is not that surprising, considering I am working in the Milk Men Colony, but the ingenuity of the household is extraordinary. I watched the process for a good half an hour. They were very proud of their work, and they were flustered by the flash photography. The dwellers considered filling the entirety of the windows, but at last they conceded to some space in between the roof and the ceiling.
I am not sure what tomorrow holds, but I do not think it can out-feat this gem.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Because it was akela ... a kela ... get it?
Apparently 5000 monkeys have been caught since 2001-2002 in Delhi. The high court issued an order to remove all of the monkeys immediately after the Deputy Mayor was killed from a monkey attack and subsequent fall from his terrace (http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/2478340.cms). They're sending the monkeys to another city and marking them with colors. The colors begin to wear after 7 - 10 days and they don't know if they monkeys are escaping or not.
It's a really difficult situation out here in the subcontinent.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
(almost) An original jhazzul
....
Oh well, I give up. I still have 16 minutes, but it's hopeless. I may be past my prime. Something needs to inspire me. Today, I discovered how to write Thug Life in Hindi script. I wish I could share it with you all. Maybe some day you will see it.
I decided not to play soccer with the boys today. Well, I should preface this with a mention that I play soccer daily with a group of kids next to my guest house. It's pretty fun, except most of them are not so good. It's kind of like if one were to try to ski, but without snow ... or skis; it's not pretty:
You can see how ridiculous the whole notion is. Anyway, so I didn't go. I felt like I was ruining a routine, but I had stuff to do.
I should mention a few things about what I'm doing here. This is a brief description of what I think my research project will look like (assuming I get all the necessary approvals) :
"The main goal of this project is to deduce when, if ever, the benefits from tanka (an underground water cistern used for rainwater harvesting in the Thar Desert) use outweigh the costs in maintaining and constructing the structure.
In addition to the above topic, I would like to compile qualitative information concerning sanitation, perception, water use, and social impact of the tanka intervention. The former question is valuable in displaying a succinct and straightforward analysis of the economic consequences of tanka use, but it does not illumine the qualitative consequences that may benefit or disadvantage a family. Again, the main goal is to report the economic trend arising after a tanka is installed, but the secondary goal is to see the impact that a tanka provides to areas that costs cannot directly be assigned."
It's kind of wordy, and sounds a lot more intense than it actually may be. I will be using (hopefully) interviews and surveys to find out this information. The next few weeks will be interesting.
I'm open to suggestions on what I should write about. What do you want to know? For those of you that actually read this guy.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
More Than a Feeling
After work the same situation exists. I walk outside of the cow-trodden Milk Man Colony to find these other creatures. I give them the nod and they know: "K.N. Kalej, that's where he's going." So I hop in. My face is always the same as I walk towards them:
Bottom line: I'm making real relationships out here. Relationships that will last most likely a life time, and all I have to do is give them money.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
What kind of run down can I provide for the last couple days in the world's most inhospitable place? Let's see:
I drank too much chai
I drank too much unfiltered water
I did not get sick
I did not care
I cared
I related
I felt privileged
I felt proud
I felt sad
I felt happy
I used the sky as a blanket
I wore the same sweat drenched clothes three times
I did not eat any meat
I visited two families who had a member recently die
I played cricket
I did not see conspicuous consumption
I ate just enough
I pet a cow
I talked about America way too much
I defined a Yankee
I learned how to say 'I will drink your blood' in Hindi
I saw necessity
I saw green in the desert
I saw people living where they should not
I saw modernity clash with untouchable nature
I saw poverty
I saw the impossible
I saw the possible.
That being said, it's a really beautiful place. For a good half of the trip I was staring out of my opened window. As a result, my hair is permanently wind-swept.
That's what's going on in a nutshell. It's pretty sweet. Oh yeah, today I had a mango milkshake, it was delicious. Fun fact for the day: "There is more vitamin C in one mango than in a field of lost jackals." It's very true, look it up.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Picture This
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
One Day at a Time
Oh yes, the ant(s). This man (or woman, do they venture out of the mound?) was encroaching on my personal space with incredible swiftness. I imagine if his little ant legs sustained more pressure from his pace, he would have exploded. He was traveling up the lower part of my foot to explore this new object that had suddenly appeared in his domain. To him, I was just an object. Now it is my job as a responsible human being to walk a mile in his shoes. So for the next few sentences, I'd like to explore what his blog entry would look like.
... I scampered out of the mound because Fernando, my neighbor, was being ridiculous. He wouldn't let me play his Ant-Box all day. He kept saying "Nah dude, in a second. Go help the Queen with laying eggs and whatnot." Everyone knew about the toothpick incident yesterday, including Jimmy. I couldn't look the queen in the eyes yet.
So I scampered out and toured the vicinity. I thought I'd resume my favorite position on that large red thing. It seemed soft and welcoming last time. Plus, I found some pretty tasty treats there yesterday. The climb was arduous but worth it. After a short time, I reached the summit.
Upon arriving, it didn't look the same. I ventured around and saw a large brown object laying stoically nearby. I mounted it with raging ferocity. It was a very strange object, a little like a forest. There were large swaying trees everywhere. Since there was vegetation, I thought the ground might offer some sweet reward. So, I bit it.
This next part is no lie: The forest began to move! I held on for dear life by gfsdjgsdg ...
Shortly thereafter the ant was squashed. For those of you that argue that ants are color-blind: don't worry about it.
I start work in four or so hours. This place is actually pretty nice, and I'm liking it. Hopefully I won't sweat my life away. Halla, halla back.
(Facebook won't show the pictures: www.jasadventure.blogspot.com)
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
April Showers Bring May Flowers
Yesterday, I had paan. Paan is the hottest item present on today's Indian market (maybe?). To the seasoned eatter, it actually is very refreshing. To me, however, it is not.
For those of you that do not know what paan is, I will delve into its historical significance and present its breakdown. I, too, do not know its makeup, so this is also a learning experience for me. Breakdown and makeup mean pretty much the same thing. That is slightly awkward.
Here we go:
"Paan is chewed as a palate cleanser and a breath freshener. It is also commonly offered to guests and visitors as a sign of hospitality and eaten at cultural events." There are two general types of Paan: tobacco and sweet. I had the sweet kind. It has "tiny pieces of betel nuts, cardamom saffron(un)/roasted coconut pieces/powder, cloves, etc". After all the ingredients are inside, the leaf containing the ingredients is folded into a triangle. The triangle is not some small geometrically insignificance, it is Euclidean-ly beautiful. The entire object, leaf and all, is then placed inside of the mouth and chewed and chewed ... and chewed. Apparently, the zenith of Paan making was reached in Northern India in the city of Lucknow.
With that out of the way, let's get to the experience:
After a hardy meal at the local Pizza Hut, the Paan was bought. Having never before had such an item, I questioned its taste. The conversation before its consumption was the following:
"What do I do with it?"
"Put it into your mouth."
"The whole thing!?"
Never backing down from new things, I did as he said. The first chew was voluptous; so many tastes filled my mouth. Shortly thereafter, I almost threw up. All in all the experience lasted approximately three minutes before I spit it out in a graceful fashion but they were arguably the most intense minutes of my life. Paan may never again bring such sensations to one Jasdeep Garcha, but its impact will be felt for however long the after taste lingers.