Picture Perfect. Not.

My friend, and probably one of my fiercest critics (and I mean that in a good way), had this to say about my picture below: It looks like someone cut your head off and pasted it on someone else's neck. Why is it at such a weird angle? You can't see where the neck is going. It looks almost deformed. 


I am paraphrasing, and exaggerating, but you get the point.

Of course, he needs to take Discourse with Women 101. But being the sport that I am, I took off that picture and put the new one up. I'm awesome like that. Also, I got somewhat bored of this one.

I am one of those non-photogenic creatures that will ask people to click 100 pictures of them so that while going through those shots later, they can come across one that will make them go -- Wow, I didn't know I could look like that. Of course, with experience, I've come to realize that I actually don't look like that, and that the photo has been made publishable thanks to some clever effect of lighting that hides my not-so-flattering features and highlights my hair (which, at the risk of sounding immodest, I love).

But I digress.

So, this older picture has graced pretty much every profile I have had for the past three years, Facebook being the only exception (because, you know, most people on my Facebook list know what I look like already in real life, no point trying to fool them.) That's how non-photogenic I am. It takes me three years to get another picture of myself that I can tolerate. Of course, by the time I get it, I'm so desperate, it doesn't seem like mere toleration to me. I almost want to call it unabashed glee and unapologetic pride at how wonderful I look. Also, I'm not sure which one comes first.

This new one (look to the left) was taken on a recent ferry ride to Charlestown. The friend who took it asked me to pose, and so I did. Tried, rather. I made her laugh, which was sort of the point. But I ended up looking so pseudo-glamorous, it's not even funny.

Anyhow, I guess this is what I'm going to look like for the next three years to all of you who I will not have the good fortune of meeting in person anytime soon. Enjoy my fake Paris Hilton-ness. In the meantime, I'll let you know if I become more photogenic.

Oh, nomenclature

Two weeks ago, I was sitting in class when my professor started talking about Asia in some context that eludes me at the moment. In the middle of the story he was narrating, he stops and asks -- Are there any Asians here?

I put half a hand up, thinking that my inclusion in that group was more than obvious, considering I'm the only brown person in the room. Of course, I'm going to be at least considered as a valid response to that question, right?

Wrong. Dead wrong.

His eyes just glazed over me before scanning the rest of the class. My surprised arm went up in rebellion, getting everyone's attention but his. Three seconds later, he resumed his story, because of course, there were no Asian students in the class. My friend, sitting opposite me, giggled no end.

Last time I checked, India was still a part of Asia. Last time I checked, we were referred to as South Asians, which is accurate, but that doesn't make us non-Asian, right? Right?!

Turns out, "Asian," in the West, is a term that has little to do with geography. It's more about race. So those that WE Asians (please note the adamant ownership of the continent) refer to as "Oriental," are considered "Asian" here in the States. Also, "Oriental" is not a term that found favour at my workplace, and I assume it is similarly received in other parts of the country. I remember a distraught colleague saying: "But that would be for something like a, uhh, you know, a rug or something. Like an Oriental rug. Not a person!" I was then jokingly accused of being racist. Hey, in my defense, American fries, American people, American rug -- it all refers to the same thing, right? Apparently not, as I learned the hard way.

To top off my thorough amusement at this entire situation, a friend sent me the link to this website, my favorite part being The Map. I think it's awesome, makes its point well and that the creator has a great sense of humor! Enjoy this little treat while I go figure out a way to get past this utter denial of my ethnicity. Maybe, someday, in a continent far, far away, I'll get over it.

Boston Globe - II

I contributed to the Boston Globe blog again -- only this time, it's not a light-hearted post about driving in Delhi. It's about the more serious things in life - Mumbai, terrorism and where we're going with it.

Read the full post here and as always, let me know what you think.

The World Is Just Awesome!

I came across this commercial for Discovery Channel on YouTube. Now I don't watch Discovery all that much, but I have to say, I agree with them 100% here :)




We may get too caught up in ourselves and our lives to notice it, but we live in a truly fascinating world. As cheesy as this sounds, I am often captivated by things, people, animals, cultures, colours, plants -- just life -- around me. And this is my tribute to the world I live in. You may get a little messed up sometimes, but I still think you are awesome :)

Delhi Dilemma: Solved.

My darling friend, who, might I add, I miss deeply, ever since she left good ol' Boston for greener pastures, sent me this today. Wanted the insider's opinion, she said. So I replied, and then I decided to post it here, considering how important an issue women's safety is in Delhi.

Let me just say that this reply has been slightly edited; all expletives and other objectionable terms have been deleted from this version. My mom reads this blog. (Hi Mom!)

Part of this article is true. Yes, the city is unsafe for women. But I think that this writer exaggerated the scene a little bit. Or maybe I am so immune to the potential danger that lurks on the streets, thanks to my innate defenses, that it seems like exaggeration to me. I did, after all, grow up in Dilli.

I would never accuse the woman for "asking for it", for wearing too short a skirt, too revealing a top. But the thing is this: if you're stepping out on an Indian street (and I've faced this in other parts of India too -- can't comment on Mumbai because I haven't spent much time there) and your thunder thighs are on display, be prepared to deal with the attention.

Yes, how I wish things were different. How I absolutely wish that I could walk down to PVR in a mini skirt and come back home without having to throw one dirty look. How I wish I didn't have paranoid parents, made so by all the unpleasant news in the morning papers. How I wish I could own my city at night, walk it, drive in it, do whatever it is that I wanted.

But I can't. And I need to face that. I can blame the migrant population from UP and Bihar (most of the culprits are from this group), I can blame the Dilli Police, and even the useless state government that steps up security only close to elections. But that's not going to get me anywhere.

So what do I do? Stop wearing "inviting" clothes (like I said, I don't think it's the clothes anyway) or just be prepared? I'd go with the second. I'd rather be prepared. I'd rather change my attitude. So the next time a random dude winks back at me, I curb the instinct to gouge his eyes out. Instead, I scream at him, create a racket, attract attention: tactics that I used to think were useless, but I'm happy to have been proved wrong. Random dude tries to touch me: I hit him. And these aren't castles I'm building in the air. I've had 1 incident -- yes, 1 -- in the 23 years I've lived there. Miracle? I don't think so.

Most importantly -- and I don't know if it's just me-- but I don't feel violated by all this. Unsafe? Hell yes! Guarded? You bet. Cynical? Ahaan. But not violated. I don't know what it is, but I guess I'm not that easy to violate. I don't make a big deal out of it cos maybe I've become the typical hardened Delhi girl or maybe cos I really don't think it's a big deal.

Don't get me wrong -- I understand the concept of safety for women and the need for it, much more so after coming to the States. But if that's how Delhi is, and you got to live there, here are my two cents: wear what you want, do what you want, just be prepared to deal with the consequences. Most importantly, be confident. It's your (BEEP) city. Don't let some random lecherous (BEEP) take that away from you.

Going back to 16

Conversation with friend while randomly walking around the neighbourhood:

Friend (very, very curious): So you met these people on Twitter?
Me (not liking where this is going): Yeah.
Friend (jeers): I thought you were smarter than that.
Me (offended): Whaddayamean? What's that sposta mean?
Friend (now choosing his words carefully): I mean, it's just so...16...
-- Long pause --
Me (defeated): Yeah, I guess it is, isn't it?

I have had variants of this one conversation with at least three friends over the past week. I met all of them at university, or college, or through some place that wasn't -- you know -- virtual. In all these exchanges that have been enlightening, defensive, accusatory and mocking by turn, I have been telling my friends about my other group of friends.

Let me rephrase that.

In these conversations, I have been trying to tell my "real" friends about my "virtual" friends. By the latter, I refer to real, flesh-and-blood people I have never met in real life. Or have met online and then met in real life, you know? You don't? Oh well.

If this trend be a bad thing, then I have Twitter to blame for it. On no other social networking website, would I ever add strangers to my list or do whatever else the equivalent of "following" people is. I am selective about who I add to my Facebook list (that little widget on the side is just a failed attempt at remedying the visual dullness of this blog) and had an equally paranoid attitude about my now-dead Orkut account.

But good ol' Twitter is another ballgame together. There's something about it that urges you to go out and talk to random strangers. While everyone has their own reason, little psychotic me has this: I have very little information about myself put up on Twitter so I feel safe talking to whoever. Sure, sure, I know it's not hard to track me, or anyone else, down on The World Wide Web. But restricting information about myself in whatever little way I can helps me sleep peacefully at night.

I never really thought about it -- talking to random strangers online was something we have all done at some deranged point in our teenage. But this, doing it at 23, it doesn't feel deranged at all. It feels necessary almost. Like there's a whole world out there made up of tweeters, and if you aren't in on the conversation, you're missing something. I'm well aware of how much of a melodramatic exaggeration this sounds like, but it's got some truth to it. I thoroughly enjoy my (sometimes) hours-long conversations with my fellow tweeters, some of which are very enlightening. I like looking at what other people are reading or writing. I like randomly drooling over Hugh Jackman with a virtual girlfriend that's sitting 2000 miles away.

There are all these wonderful people out there: the one who writes down his tweets before he sends them out, the one who fervently tweets about his favourite sports team, the one who makes me laugh with her tweets about college and boyfriends,and the one who tweets about her soil research and Bhangra songs -- and this is just the tip of the iceberg. All these, and many more, have something interesting to say.

If I need to regress mentally to listen to them, well then, I guess I'm 16 now, aren't I? And might I add, a happier-in-her-own-paradise 16-year-old would be hard to find.

Is religion just a cultural thing?

That's the question BU's Inter Varsity Christian Fellowship was asking yesterday. For someone who's (currently) agnostic, I'm pretty interested in religion and related issues. Maybe the fact that I come from a country that is known for worshipping 330 million gods (and that's just the prevailing religion we're talking about) has something to do with it. Anyhow, I decided to stop by and see what the fuss around this display was.


Turns out, the fuss was justified, and much needed in my opinion. I don't think enough people question their religious choices. And this display made you examine yours there and then. It didn't matter whether the analysis led to a strong reiteration or an apprehensive rejection of your long-held preferences. The point was to ask yourself the right questions, to step back and take a hard look at your belief, whatever it may be.

One of the questions asked by them read: What do you attribute your religious choices to -- personal choice, societal pressure or family? I saw that societal pressure had one response, family had two. Most of the respondents had checked personal choice as their answer. Good for them, I say. But I still wonder how many of them have actually stopped to think about why they believe in whatever their believe in. Come to think of it, if you just never question what your family or your society hands out to you as the accepted social more, it will become your "personal choice" after years of blind, thoughtless acceptance. Simply because that's all you know and you never really considered anything else.

How much of a choice is that anyway?